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JUST A-VERSE-A-DAY 

















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JUST A-VERSE-A-DAY 

By D. G. B. 


(These verses are reprinted by 
request.) 

This Song: of Mine. 

This song of mine 
May have no new illumination fine, 
No crisp, original fresh turn of 
phrase, 

No quaint as-yet-uncaught new 
imagery which may amaze 

The staid conservatives. 

But I would breathe here if I may 
In some new fashion—or the old, 
old way— 

A sentiment that lives, 

A vital something which some heart 
somewhere 

May hear and, hearing, find it quite 
Encouraging—and like the gentle 
call at night 

Of comrade who assures that he is 
nigh 

With sympathy and love and friend¬ 
ship high. 

If just one sigh 
Shall be supplanted by a smile 
This song of mine will be worth 
while! 

For You! 

I. 

I have written this verse for YOU 
today— 

For you who may never see these 
lines; . 

I write them as if in the devious 
way 

Of our lives we may meet; and who 
will say 

We may know each other by cer¬ 
tain signs. 

II. 

I have written to voice from this 
heart of mine 

A love that can follow the whole 
race through— 

A love for each heart with a hope 
divine, 

A love that is born of no selfish 
design— 

So I am^wfTtlag-Ahis verse today 
foD^-YOU!^> 


ANSWERS 

V - - ■■■--» 




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Savannah, Ga., Dec. 1, 1927 















































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JUST A-VERSE-A-DAY 

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FIRST PRINTING 
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PRESS OF 

THE J. W. BURKE COMPANY 
MACON, GEORGIA 













Copyright, 1927 
By D. G. Bickers • 



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“D. G. B.”—AN INTRODUCTION 


TT is wholly outside the scope of a collection such as this to 
provide an essay on the history, structure and development 
of verse. My mission is simply to commend the work of 
the author to discriminating lovers of rhyme and meter, and 
to introduce a friend of over thirty years to a select coterie, 
who may have been denied the bounty of a personal asso¬ 
ciation. To do so, is a pleasure and a privilege; for it has 
been my observation throughout this period, that if there is 
a jealous bone in his body, it is an anomaly; or, if he has an 
adventitious sign of dissimulation or enmity in his nature, 
no diagnostician has been able to discover it. 

Were an apology needed for the appearance of this, his first 
volume, it would be found in the fact that he has sung his 
songs to the people, of Georgia particularly, for more than a 
quarter of a century, coupled with the insistence on the part 
of those to whom he has given, day in and out, the best that 
is in him—his lilting lines of love, of faith, of devotion to an 
ideal, of confidence in the good of humanity, of modest hu¬ 
mility, of infectious optimism, and an unswerving and un¬ 
wavering fidelity to the cause of the Creator—to put the 
choicest of his vast collection in permanent form. 

This he has done under the suggestively attractive caption, 
Just A-Verse-a-Day, in which he has opened his heart 
and displayed his soul to prince and pauper, to peasant and 
king, for the sake of the singing. He has fought a good fight, 
he has kept the faith, he has renounced pessimism, and he has 
lived to see his dream become a truth, which is even sweeter 



D. G. B.”—AN INTRODUCTION —Concluded 


than the dream. He has written much that will survive, and 
in the unborn years there will be many who will walk in 
pleasant pastures, beside still waters and reflect that “D. G. 
B.”, poet-laureate of the press of his adopted state, was not 
only spiritually minded but the friend of man, and the apostle 
of the home. Ralph Methven Thomson. 

Savannah , Ga., December 1, 1927. 


vi 


THE FIRST LINE 



HIS collection of verses is the answer to many 


X requests for some of the daily bits appearing in 
the Savannah Morning News, the Macon Daily 
Telegraph, the Athens Banner, and some other pa¬ 
pers of this state and other states for a number of 
years. They do not make pretense to being the finest 
poetry; I think they bear little of pretense of any 
sort. As they first appeared, some of the represent¬ 
atives of several thousand that have been published 
—most of them simply for the day’s casual reading 
—some groups of several kinds are offered in the hope 
that they may be pleasing and helpful in some little 
way to some who read them. The writer has taken 
a few minutes out of each busy day for thirty busy 
years to sing, because singing is good spiritual exer¬ 
cise. I enjoy trying to sing; you may like to put your 
own music to these pieces. 


D. G. Bickers. 


Savannah, Ga., Dec . /, 1927. 












DANIEL GARNETT BICKERS 


BY VIRGINIA F. CULLEN 



HAT contemporary poetry in the South has been en- 


-JL riched by the verses of D. G. Bickers as contained in 
this, his first published volume, is perhaps attributable to the 
author’s vocation in life, though it may be said to be in spite 
of it, for his vocation is that of the newspaper man, first and 
last; for a long time a news-gatherer and news-dispenser, and 
for some years a steady editorial writer. His avocation is 
the little feature of “verse and vignette”. But the avocation 
has not been ignored for sake of loyalty to the vocation. The 
spontaneity of poetic feeling, the impetus to all true poetry, 
has soared beyond the rule and type of office routine and 
found expression in many heartening bits of song that he 
has recorded for the newspapers of Georgia, since his majori¬ 
ty, thirty years ago. At times they may have been “mere 
memoranda set down to keep them from getting away into the? 
Silence again”, as he once expressed it; rough ashlars that he 
has always meant to cut and polish one day and put into more 
sedate form for those who have waited so long for them, but 
through them all can be glimpsed the heart of the “great 
lover”—just as Rupert Brooke loved “things” and “cups 
clean-gleaming”. 

However, the requests for a collection of his daily verses 
tacitly demand that they be submitted as each was first pub¬ 
lished in his “Good Morning To You” and his “Just A-Verse- 
a-Day” greetings,—in the same charming, simple raiment 
that inspired the requests over a period of many years. As 
such they are now presented. The making of them was his 


(9) 





10 


JUST A-VERSE-A-DAY 


recreation and refreshment, he says; rhythmic thoughts burst¬ 
ing forth in a moment of introspection to give surcease from 
the monotony of the daily grind; little intimate things born 
under the typewriter keys and spirited away without changes 
to the waiting maw of the linot5'pe. 

“D. G. B.” (the South knows him best in this abbreviated 
name-form) is a newspaper man instinctively, preferably, 
providentially. That his daily duties in the newspaper office 
(he has not been absent from his desk when he should have 
been on duty, but two days, in twenty years) have permitted 
the shadowy touch of his favorite Muse to crystallize into 
poetic form his innate love for the beautiful in life, is this 
volume’s best plea for genuineness and personal sincerity. 
Invariably there is found a strain of pure and high sentiment 
running through his poems, not indefinitely and obscurely 
shadowed, but animating bright images and clear conceits. 

By his own confession, this perennial poet launched his 
newspaper career in the country printing office of the Gaines¬ 
ville (Ga.) Eagle, while completing his high school work, 
“to learn the trade of a printer.” In his own words: “I was 
promised nothing for the first two weeks; and was paid $2.50 
wages at the end of the first week,” which he explains by 
saying that high school training made him a better “hand” 
than the foreman had thought to find. With the Gainesville 
country papers, the Eagle, the Industrial News, the Georgia 
Cracker, which he leased from the late H. W. J. Ham, a 
nationally popular platform orator of his day—and the Her¬ 
ald, which he helped to organize, he worked until he was 
mature, becoming in that time correspondent for the morning 
papers of the state, the Atlanta Constitution, the Macon 
Telegraph, the Savannah Morning News, the Augusta Chron¬ 
icle and others. He was active correspondent for morning 
papers for twenty-five years. 




DANIEL GARNETT BICKERS 


11 


As a cub reporter on the Atlanta Journal, at the same time 
corresponding for the Macon Telegraph, he began his first 
“columns” of verse, paragraph and jest, for those papers; for 
the Telegraph he has been upon the editorial page with a 
daily verse and vignette for over thirty years, with few times 
off. For ten years he has been associate editor of the Savannah 
Morning News, going to Savannah from Athens, where he 
was managing editor for ten years of the Athens Banner and 
“did” daily verse and features “on the side”. The Savannah 
and Macon morning papers have featured the “Just A-Verse- 
a-Day” for years. 

Mr. Bickers explains his own advent: “Born sometime 
after the panic of ’73 and in time for the Centennial Exposition 
at Philadelphia, but too young to appreciate that big show; 
birthplace,—Farmville, Prince Edward County, Virginia. 
Father,—Garnett Ross Bickers, a merchant, originally from 
Orange county, Virginia; mother, a daughter of the late 
James D. Crawley, Prospect, Virginia, a farmer, teacher and 
for forty years a local preacher, serving Methodist churches 
in his county and other counties, gratis. Education, received 
from my mother, who is still daily teaching (in her eightieth 
year), until she fitted me for college.” 

In a paragraph we have his birth, parentage and hereditary 
instincts. The D. G. Bickers of the press today,—the farmer’s 
friend, the advocate of all schools and teachers, a man whose 
poems reveal clearly a defined spiritual strain, remembers 
his childhood days in Virginia; but he came to Georgia when 
ten years old, so Georgia claims him as her poet. On August 
26, 1927, the Georgia Press Association, on its annual trip 
into the mountain country, paused at Gainesville, the present 
home of his mother, and by unanimous vote, proclaimed him 
Poet-Laureate of the press of the state. 

In the years that followed his first fling at newspapering, 



12 


JUST A-VERSE-A-DAY 


the verses he has contributed from time to time to the Geor¬ 
gia and national press have come back to him with many an 
interesting tale gathered while wandering in strange lands. 
The stories of some of the eleven thousand “children” began 
with the first informal publication, “Ninety-Six”, a brochure, 
entirely self- and hand-made in a Christmas holiday week, 
a greeting to the new year, with a calendar for each month, 
and facing each calendar-page a poem appropriate to the 
period of the twelvemonth. The greeting to the year was: 

I know not how I’ll like you, Stranger, 

I know not what you’ll bring to me— 

Perhaps you’ll whisper low of danger, 

Perchance you’ll gaily sing to me. 

I dare not pry into your treasures— 

You’ll have both work and rest for me; 

You must have pain, you may have pleasures— 

I know you’ll bring what’s best for me. 


In this collection, a typical one of the poems is that to 
“October”: 

Once on a time, for thus the legend goes, 

Dame Nature fell asleep. In deep repose, 

All clothed in richest robes of summer green, 

She slumbered, when there crept, unheard, unseen, 

A silent painter, mischievous and more, 

Whose magic, mystic brush swept softly o’er 
The garment green that hid the sleeping dame ; 

And from the brush there quickly flowing came 
The brightest tints, exquisitely combined, 

The scarlet and the orange intertwined, 




DANIEL GARNETT BICKERS 


13 


With all the iris colors mixed about, 

And not a lively, lovely hue left out. 

So when the drowsy dame at length awoke 

And rubbed her eyes, she doubting, wond’ring, spoke— 

And asked (recalling dreamily a kiss!) 

“I’d really like to know whose dress is this!” 


<c/ I 1 HE Printer’s Proof of ‘The Piece-Makers’ ”, published 
some time later, was the story of a young newspaper 
man, in which his college days, his newspaper career and his 
love affairs were told in reproductions of ostensible clippings 
from half a hundred or more daily and weekly papers of 
Georgia, real Georgia newspapers. This was his first copy¬ 
right production, published from Athens, Ga. The follow¬ 
ing poem is taken from that story. It has been set to music 
and printed as a lyric love song, by Hunter M. Perkinson: 


I would not have you pledge me, dear, 

That in the years agone 

Your heart ne’er stirred 
From other word 
Than that of mine alone; 

I do not care whom once you loved, nor when, 
nor how— 

It is enough for me to know you love me now. 

I would not have you pledge me, dear, 

To love me thus for aye, 

And swear your vast, 

Wild love will last 
Forever and a day; 

I would not force from lips I love a formal vow— 

It is enough for me to know you love me now. 




14 


JUST A-VERSE-A-DAY 


T HE World War period elicited many strong expressions 
in verse. A khaki-bound booklet, in the fall of 1917* 
suggested by daily prayer services held in many American 
cities for the Cause, was entitled, “A Word With the Com¬ 
mander”. It drew an expression of hearty, sympathetic, per¬ 
sonal appreciation from President Wilson in an autographed 
letter to the author. A typical verse of that collection is 
given here, “A Prayer for Our Army”: 

Oh, Lord of Hosts, who guidest destiny of nations from afar, 
Who nervest soldiers unto battle, turnest tides of war, 

We do not pray that Thou wouldst be with us, that Thou 
Wouldst go with them that fight for us and teach them how 
To overcome the enemy; we do not plead with Thee this day 
To be with us, and them, upon our side! It is a better way 
In which we come to Thee: We pray, with rev’rence hushed 
To deep solemnity, with arrogance and selfishness now crushed 
In penitence for past remissnesses, that we ourselves may be 
In harmony with all Thy plan, in full accord with Thee— 
Not that Thou wouldst now condescend with us in battle to 
abide, 

But that in righteous war indeed we may be found upon Thy 


side! 



NE year “D. G. B.” prepared a decorative calendar for 


V^/the home, from the home, and of the home. On the 
cover was a picture of the home of the Georgia sweetheart of 
John Howard Payne, author of “Home, Sweet Home”— 
Miss Mary Harden, of Athens, Ga. There were twelve 
serious verses on phases of the home, home life, and home 
relations. The title of the following, from that collection, 
is: “Two Cannot Make a Home:” 




DANIEL GARNETT BICKERS 


15 


One cannot build a home; two can; but they can only build 
it! Soon 

There comes to both of them the tugging at the heart, 
That wistful longing, undefined, persistent, for that better 
part 

Of home-life. They may build the home but cannot keep the 
boon 

Of happiness too selfishly. Directly there are whispered low 
The sacred secrets; over them a hush of sweet expectancy 
enthralls 

Their hours. . . . Then, on a day, in tense anxieties that grow 
Too sharp to last, the angels come and leave a bit of heaven 
there, 

A living pledge of human immortality; and over Her there 
falls 

The sanctity, the mystery of Motherhood. ... A book of 
revelations rare 

Begins to open to them, hour by hour; the greatest, newest fact 
Is learned: That only in their attitude toward Life in this 
Wee, mutual expression of their love is that perfected bliss 
Which only mothers, fathers, know. . . . The home, to be 
complete, intact 

For times ahead, must have its very institution sanctified 
And consecrated by the touch of baby fingers. Then, indeed, 
Does growth begin for Him, for Her—more rapidly do they 
Develop than this tiny Possibility from day to day; 

Then do they measure up most unbelievably to every need 
This growing little problem, care, delight, this hope and guide, 
Presents. . . . Then in this opportunity to be, to do, to act 
In years to come, by proxy, to achieve and realize the dream 



16 


JUST A-VERSE-A-DAY 


Which never can come true to them, they reach the heights 
supreme 

Of willing, eager sacrifice; they love and work and give 
Their lives unto and for this Child—and learn thus how to 
live. 


A NOTHER holiday season Mr. Bickers “annotated” the 
li old Webster’s Blue Back Spelling Book, known to past 
generations, inserting a score or more of verses here and there, 
marking relative pages and passages, and following the old 
school trick of “now turn to page twenty-three” as children 
followed that custom years ago. This was one of the “in¬ 
serts” : 

You know that spelling’s very like the rest 
Of life. You take the best 
Of spellers and they’re born, not made; and yet 
Attention, diligence and study always get 
Results in learning how to spell. . . . 

Another thing I’ve noticed well: 

The hard words frequently become 
The easiest, and some 

Small common words the hardest to write—right! 

For instance “erysipelas”, “caoutchouc” and “catarrh”— 

They never bother me, because I know they are 

More difficult than usual, and so 

I learned them well and know 

Them now; but simple little fellows, plain 

And commonplace and everyday in use—they are my main 

Impediments in writing: “Neice” and “seperate” 

And “reccomend” and “bouy”. . . I’ll state 
The big mistakes in life we make are those 
In little things of ordinary course, experience shows. 





DANIEL GARNETT BICKERS 


17 


W HEN the Georgia Press Association was on a New 
York sea trip a few years ago, Memorial Day was ob¬ 
served off Hatteras—on a Sunday—at sea, perhaps the first 
time that day had been celebrated under such circumstances. 
On the breakfast plate of each passenger on the City of Chat¬ 
tanooga that morning was placed a bound brochure, in Con¬ 
federate blue and in silver title, containing a dozen sonnets 
upon monumental memorial themes, written by D. G. Bickers 
as his response to an assignment on the program. The first 
sonnet was, “This Day, a Monument:” 

In time shall crumble unto dust the stone 
No matter how enduring, how secure 
It may appear; it will not quite inure 
To age-defying hardness; time alone 
Can claim the strongest elements his own; 

Time’s triumph may be slow, but it is sure, 

Despite the specious promise to endure— 

All matter bows to Time in weakness prone. 

We make of Time, the master, servant now, 

And from the calendar we choose a day, 

Set up this space of time which will not bow 
Nor will forever yield unto decay, 

Among the days, immortal in intent, 

We make this Day their lasting monument. 

W HAT I have always considered one of the poet’s most 
exquisite poems was his unintentional contribution to 
“Wayside Flowers”. An interesting story is attached to that. 
A Georgia woman sent a gift to a friend in Boston, a parcel 
wrapped in the editorial page of a Georgia newspaper. Some 
time later another Georgia woman received a booklet con¬ 
taining verses gathered by a Boston friend. She found in 





18 


JUST A-VERSE-A-DAY 


the collection one by D. G. Bickers which, she later learned, 
had been clipped from the discarded wrapping of the parcel 
sent from Georgia to Massachusetts, and added to the New 
Englander’s collection of verses. The poem is entitled: “Her 
Best:” 

A poet wrote in a tender strain, 

And this was the simple, sweet refrain: 

“There’s many a woman, east and west, 

Must be in the sunshine to look her best.” 

Aye, poet fair, you have seen the flush 
Kindled by sun-kiss full to the blush, 

You saw the sheen of the golden hair 
When sunbeams brushed its tresses fair. 

You thought but of hearts that are gay and light, 

You saw these only—that made you write: 

“There’s never a woman, east nor west, 

But must be in the sunshine to look her best.” 

But, oh! I have seen when the shadows fell, 

When sorrow assailed that no tongue might tell, 

Faces still fairer for lives storm-swept, 

And tenderer eyes for the tears they wept. 

And spirits more beautiful I have known 

For the cloud that was carelessly over them thrown; 

The touch of a gentler hand I knew— 

The softer for pain it had trembled through. 

So I know some hearts that are better far 
For the lack of the sunshine, and there are 
Some women who suffer, east and west, 

Who only in shadows can show their best. 



DANIEL GARNETT BICKERS 


19 



NOTHER friend, in London on a visit, selecting re- 


XX membrance gift-books to send home, found a handsome 
little volume of the “Quiet Hour” series, hundreds of thou¬ 
sands of which were published during the war period. In this 
booklet she discovered to her delight one from a Georgia 
friend she knew well, “D. G. B.” It follows: 

I knew a man who, in his avaricious grasp, 

Had tried to gain both yonder world and this, 

A life of ease on earth and heav’nly bliss— 

And lost them both, for both slipped through his clasp. 

I knew another who, with single purpose true, 
Surrendered hold upon the things of sense 
And lodged his treasure in the endless hence— 

Thus, winning yonder world, gained this one, too. 



ND the one following has been everywhere. It was 


JTjl written in 1898, has been copied and re-copied. It 
lost its signature, took on strange initials at times, and finally 
came home to roost recently when the author, introduced to 
a school audience for an address, heard his own words quoted 
by the introducer, with no one present aware that he had 
written them when hardly more than a lad: 


You gave on the way a pleasant smile 
And thought no more about it; 

It cheered a life that was sad the while 
That might have been dark without it; 
And so for the smile and its fruitage fair 
You’ll reap a crown sometime—somewhere. 

You spoke one morning a cheering word 
And passed to other duties; 




20 


JUST A-VERSE-A-DAY 


It warmed a heart, new promise stirred, 
And painted a day with beauties; 

And so for that word and its silent prayer 
You’ll reap a palm sometime—somewhere. 

You lent a hand to a fallen one, 

A lift in kindness given; 

It saved a soul that was almost done 
And helped a heart toward heaven; 
And thus for the aid you proffered there 
You’ll reap a joy sometime—somewhere. 


D URING the past year when a volume of gathered and 
selected verses about the late President Wilson was 
prepared by a Brooklyn librarian, the following poem which 
appeared in the Georgia newspapers on the morning following 
Mr. Wilson’s death, was included, the same compiler later 
selecting verses from Mr. Bickers’ writings for a volume on 
Armistice Day and one on Robert E. Lee, and another, a 
Southern anthologist, recently called for a dozen representa¬ 
tive verses from the Georgia writer for a collection in process 
of compilation. The Wilson poem is: 

One day the world will wonder why 

All men, all groups, did not commit to him 
Full leadership. . . . He was so high 

The brightness of his way made other ways seem dim. 
Forgetting self, and scorning all the cheap 

Expediencies time-servants know, his will could keep 
The star of future ages clear—may it increase!— 

As he will now, who gave his life—to Peace! 

Some time the world will wonder how 
His greater plan (by all the little schemes 




DANIEL GARNETT BICKERS 


21 


Of selfish, willful men who now 

Are blind to the sublimity of finer dreams) 

Was for a time obscured, distorted so 

That it was lost. One day the world will come to know 
Its leader of the ages; when the noise shall cease, 

And quiet reign—know him who gave his life—for Peace! 


S EVERAL poems of the Georgia writer have been “read” 
into the Congressional Record, in speeches by congress 
members. One of them: 

There was a time when nations came to be 
Because they were locked in from sea to sea, 

Because they lay between great mountain ranges high, 
Because a people spoke one language commonly, 

Because they claimed one common worship-creed, 
Because they were of but one race, one breed, 

Because some Institution held them true— 

The church, the army, or the union through 
Peculiar mode of living, government; but none 
Of these things counts, when all is said and done. 

For perpetuity in any nation’s life there needs must be 
A greater element, a purpose grounded in real unity; 
There must be, underneath and over all, that strong, 

True, vital principle, Unselfishness, which lives 
For service to the race; which grows because it—Gives! 


P ERHAPS the first poem to be written after the Spanish- 
American War is the following, celebrating the declara¬ 
tion of peace. It was written within the half-hour after the 
news reached the Atlanta Journal, and was on the street in 





22 


JUST A-VERSE-A-DAY 


a special edition in less than another half hour. Kipling’s 
“Recessional” form was purposely adopted: 

Lord God of Peace at last—at last— 

Thy pitying ear hath heard 
Above the roar and battle’s blast 
And boom of cannon firing fast 
The mother’s piteous word 
From harrowed hearts, the stifled cry 
Of sorrowed homes, the sob and sigh 
By keenest anguish stirred, 

Lord God of Peace, Thou heardst on high! 

Lord God of Peace, at last—at last— 

Thy face is toward us turned, 

And through the war-cloud flying past, 

And through the shadows melting fast, 

Thy smile is yet discerned; 

And o’er the ashen Eastern skies 
We see Thy bow of promise rise, 

And through the dark we learned, 

Lord God of Peace, Thy priceless prize. 

Lord God of Peace, at last—at last— 

Thy still, small voice is heard 
Above the battle’s booming blast 
And roar of cannon firing fast: 

“Be still!” the welcome word 
Hath soothed the troubled, surging seas, 

Hath lulled the tempest-winds to ease, 

And calmed the passions stirred— 

Lord God of Peace, we bend our knees! 



DANIEL GARNETT BICKERS 


23 


Lord God of Peace, at last—at last— 
Thine everlasting arm 
Is bared; we see in periled past 
Thy providence—Thou ever hast 
In even war’s alarm 
Had still Thine ends of justice meet 
To compass—these are now complete; 

Shield us from further harm, 

Lord God of Peace, Thy reign we greet! 


HEN the World War ended, the poem below was 



VV featured in the Savannah Morning News in a special 
edition on the streets between midnight and dawn—November 
ii, 1918. It had been written the night before and put into 
type for use the moment the signing of the Armistice should 
be announced: 

Yonder the red torch flames. Anarchy bids for the power— 
Bids, and may seize the reins for transient hour. . . . 

But here, upon the field, war-seamed and drenched with blood 
Of one hot, fierce quadrennium of struggle, It is signed— 
Signed ’mid the scenes of super-war! Through trench and 
mud 

And smoke and crashing boom of battle came the messengers 
behind 

The white flag of defeat, the emissaries sent to sue 
For truce, preliminary now to peace; sent by the same 
Authority directing all the armies which have through 
The months pressed ruthlessly to crush in blood and flame 
The opposition to Autocracy! The Absolute surrenders there 
To the supreme commander of the Allied hosts which leaped 
To Freedom’s call for all humanity; accepts the terms, the 


bare. 




24 


JUST A-VERSE-A-DAY 


Humiliating terms the victor names; says: “We have reaped 
The whirlwind for the voice of one ambitious, impious king— 
We were his partners in the crime against the Race, we bow 
Here for the lash, the chastisement severe and merited; the 
Evil Thing 

Escaped for just the hour—He shall pay sometime, some¬ 
how!” 


I N anticipation, too, of what seemed sure to happen, the 
following had been written for the regular feature-space 
occupied by the “Just A-Verse-a-Day” contribution in the 
Macon Telegraph and Savannah Morning News and other 
papers: 

He dreamed of world dominion—more: 

Himself he fitted for a rule that would embrace 
All nations, hardening his heart, and bore 
In fiendish patience all the agony but to efface 
The remnant of his conscience; he shut out the light 
Of justice, fairness, sense of service and of right, 
Murdered the still small voice that might 
Have made him great, strangled the faint 
And feeble struggles of the good impulse, silenced 
the ’plaint 

Of wronged and wounded ones, and blasphemously 
dared 

Almighty God Himself! .... Unto himself alone 
He would have bent the world, nor shared 
He with Humanity one smallest right to own 
A place he envied. This was his sin supreme: 

A selfishness which shut all mankind out. . . 

There could be then no other ending of his dream— 

To be by all the world cast down to death, despair 
and doubt! 





DANIEL GARNETT BICKERS 


25 


T HE lines below, at least the first stanza of them, have 
been copied all over the United States in various type- 
forms and rarely with the hint that a young newspaper man, 
on a rainy day, in the old “Georgia Cracker” office, wrote 
them for a double purpose—to fill space devoid of news and 
to remind some delinquent of his arrears. It has been copied 
with other names attached, it has been transposed and for 
spice has been used with every “s” turned into a It is 

still going, after thirty years, and helping to dun negligent sub¬ 
scribers : 

How dear to our hearts is the old silver dollar 
When some kind subscriber presents it to view, 

The liberty-head without necktie or collar 

And all the strange signs that to us seem so new; 

The wide-spreading eagle, the arrows below it, 

The stars and the words with the dear things they tell— 
The coin of our fathers, we’re glad that we know it, 

And sometime or other, ’twill come in right well: 

The spread-eagle dollar, 

The star-spangled dollar, 

The old silver dollar 
Will come in right well. 

And how dear to our hearts is the old paper dollar, 
When thoughtful delinquents present it to view— 

The photograph on it, the symbols which follow, 

The general appearance which seems strangely new ; 
The dollar-marks plain and the figures beside ’em, 

The color, the words, and the good things they tell, 

The promise to pay—all the creases can’t hide ’em— 
Should we sight one more dollar we’d know it quite well: 
The old tattered dollar, 

The green-greasy dollar, 



26 


JUST A-VERSE-A-DAY 


That old paper dollar— 

We’d know it quite well. 

Or, how dear to our hearts is the little gold dollar 
Whenever it chances to come to our view, 

The smallness of size, and the rich golden yellow, 

To us it is novel of all that is new; 

So long has it been since we captured one of ’em 

We’ve forgot how they look and we scarcely can tell— 
Be that as it may, we are not going to scoff ’em, 

But take in the gold with the other as well; 

The miniature dollar, 

The bright-yellow dollar, 

The tiny gold dollar— 

We’ll take it as well. 


O NE day the Savannah Morning News city editor played 
a trick upon the author. The latter had found on the 
pavement a broken-off leg of a china doll; for intra-office con¬ 
sumption he had placed the found article upon the city editor’s 
desk, with, for his information alone, the lines below—which 
the city editor sent to the composing room where they took 
the place of the regular Just A-Verse-a-Day feature: 

Perhaps from habit I was keen to see 
This on the sidewalk, plain as it could be— 

An object in these days not over rare 

(I did not know they carried now a “spare”). 

So if perchance you find a seeking dame 
Looking for her extremity, her name 
Leave with me—she’s not in the best of shape 
(Good form!) she must now have to rake and scrape 
To get a living—on one side she’s “short”— 

With only partial means here for support. 




DANIEL GARNETT BICKERS 


27 


I N sprightly moments and relaxation moods the author will 
indulge in verse gymnastic exercises. Inspection will 
reveal that the following bits are unusual. The first rhymes 
at both ends of the lines; the second rhymes at both ends of 
the line and then has an added rhyme recurring in the middle 
of lines: 


I. 

Dreary are the darksome days, 
Skies with gloom are shrouded, 
Weary is the work always, 

Eyes with tears are clouded. 

Brighter life will be sometime, 
Blue of skies be purer, 

Lighter then will run the rhyme, 
True, our hopes, and surer! 

II. 

A gleam of a star above, 

A dream from afar, and—love; 

So I possess 

The highest happiness, 

For much like to bliss above 
Is the touch of her kiss and—love. 

The bright of the skies above, 

The light of her eyes and—love ; 
So I am blessed 
With riches rarest, best— 

The bright of the blue above, 

The sight of just you and—Love. 



28 


JUST A-VERSE-A-DAY 


O NE day somebody asked Mr. Bickers why he broke the 
lines of some of the irregular—and some regular— 
verses with periods. This was his reply—hot off the Rem¬ 
ington : 


« j) 

Somebody asked the other day 
Why I 

Put rows of little dots, this way.at nigh 

Or further intervals, irregular, uncertain, and 
Irrelevantly placed. You understand, 

That it’s a part of license that I claim 
And there’s no blame 
Attached to them. It might 
Be they were used to indicate a slight 
Hiatus, or for emphasis, 

Or simply to fill out a line, like this:. 

With something that’s at least 

Less harmful than some words. A poem pieced 

With periods ought to hold 

Attention from the old 

Keen curiosity aroused by pithless points! . . . . But, hist! 
Likewise and also, list! 

I’ll slip you on the quiet now 
Exactly how 

I came to use them: Many times 

In writing rhymes 

You reach a place that’s fine to stop 

And—don’t; an ideal spot to lop 

The thing smack off—but cannot quite decide 

To end the misery just there, 

Just where 

The ending’s good. And so, 







DANIEL GARNETT BICKERS 


29 


I, to be fair and honest-like, you know, 

Set down the dots to show 
I knew there was a chance to quit 

But couldn’t quite avail myself of it. 

.For instance: Note. 

The last two lines I wrote. 

.See ?. 

.Gee!. 


ANOTHER inquirer asked the ever-worn question, “How 

-TjL do you write these verses?” And he gave the answer: 

It’s so easy when you’re working by the reg’lar rule o’ rote 

To compose these feature verses. Now the formula you’ll 
note: 

First, select the special measure for a special stated time, 

Choose the gen’ral style of rhythm and the latest thing in 
rhyme. 

“Take a subject?” Oh, that doesn’t really matter—when 
you’ve done 

You can stick a heading on it, one of soberness or—fun. 

Having got the pitch to suit you so no syllables you’ll miss 

You can draft a sort o’ skeleton in telegraph like this: 


<< 



Then having got thus started on the versifying lay, 

You just set down your final rhymes, built up about this way: 











30 


JUST A-VERSE-A-DAY 


“_delight 

_verse; 

_write 

_worse.” 

Next, put initial words just where they’ll hit—or skip or 
miss— 

The stanza’s then evolving in a way somewhat like this: 


“I_delight 

To_verse; 

It’s_write 

Good___worse.” 

Then scatter little words along, about the middle, say, 
Until the product of your brain begins to look this way: 

“I_I_delight 

To_a_verse; 

It’s_, seems_write 

Good_or_worse.” 


And, finally, there’s nothing left, to turn a quatrian neat, 
But fill the interstices and announce the thing complete: 

“I think that I could just delight 
To pen a bit of verse; 

It’s easy, seems to me, to write 
Good rhymes or even—worse.” 

That’s simply perfect by the rule for every measured bar, 
And perfectly, yes—simple, too; just do it: There you are! 
And if you’re not averse to heads, you scratch your massive 
dome 

And caption it with humor as you label it, “A Pome!” 
















DANIEL GARNETT BICKERS 


31 


I N semi-jesting manner he paid his tribute to those who 
depend upon the freak form, the radical stunt to get atten¬ 
tion : 


you probably noticE 
thiS 

freaky skit because it is peculiarL 
-y pitched, because iT 
is unusual in look and freakish to extremE 
extent, because ’tiS 
absolutely lawless as to meter, style and all—thaT 
with independence of arrangement. . . . YeT 
anybody can do this, or even. . W 
-orse, and not half—trY 

Anybody can attract attention by doing the unexpected 
Thing—the more radically lawless, the more attention! 
The public speaker can draw a crowd by turning summersaults 
And disrobing himself as far as he dares— 

And some there may be who will acclaim his unconventional 
And eccentric conduct as—Original, expression of a New 
Freedom! 

But to accord one’s way to rule 

And law and tried conventionalities requires 
A self-control learned in the school 

Of patient, careful training; he who best aspires 
To bear a message from the heart, 

Unselfishly to serve, to mould, and guide, command— 
Must be himself in finer part commanded, guided, 
moulded. One must understand 
License is dangerous—and yet 
The easiest way; adapting conduct to design 
Is difficult! One may forget 
Toil is the cost and pain’s the price of service fine! 



32 


JUST A-VERSE-A-DAY 


A NOTHER day while demonstrating to friends the dif- 
- ference and the similarity of various forms, he produced 
the following—the same words arranged in three very differ¬ 
ent type forms: 


I. 

I did not passionately supplicate and yearn for inspiration 
fine; I had been counseled to be still and—wait! I watched 
in patient silence for a sign! Then, presently, the gray cloud 
turned to gold; a blossom burst upon the dead-drab rod; the 
banal breeze hummed anthems sweet and old; truth showed 
me beauty; back of truth was God. 

II. 

I did not passionately supplicate and yearn 
For inspiration’s vision fine; I had been counseled 
To be still 

And—wait!. . . I watched 
In patient silence 
For the Sign! 

Then- 

Presently, 

The gray cloud turned 

To gold; a blossom burst 

Upon the dead-drab rod; the banal breeze 

Hummed anthems 

Sweet and old; truth showed me Beauty; 

Back of Truth 
Was—God! 


III. 

I did not passionately supplicate 

And yearn for inspiration’s vision fine; 

I had been counseled to be still and—wait! 
I watched in patient silence for the Sign! 




DANIEL GARNETT BICKERS 


33 


Then, presently, the gray cloud turned to gold; 

A blossom burst upon the dead-drab rod; 

The banal breeze hummed anthems sweet and old ; 
Truth showed me Beauty; back of Truth was— God! 


T the 1927 meeting of the Georgia newspaper people in 



TjL Eatonton, Putnam County, the birth-place of Joel 
Chandler Harris, he was asked by the Eatonton people for 
a poem for “Uncle Remus” night—and this was read ef¬ 
fectively by Mrs. Frank Dennis: 

Who is the one, this Georgia son 
Whom now the world has just begun 
Truly to love and appreciate? 

A child with a heart immaculate, 

A lad with a canny gift to learn, 

A youth with a courage to work and earn 
His way; and a Man with heart of gold 
Who lived thro’ his work these days of old 
Where memory’s signal fires burn. 

Where was begun the work he’s done, 

That millions honor this Georgia son 
And truly his life appreciate? 

Here, next to nature, as nature’s mate, 

In the heart of the country, clean and sweet, 

With the “creeters” and “varmints” about his feet— 

Brer Rabbit, Brer Wolf, Brer Fox, Brer B’ar— 

He knew what they said while “a-settin’ dar,” 

Their intimate stories, full, complete. 

And who was the one, with the Georgia sun 
Gilding his wool when the day was done, 




34 


JUST A-VERSE-A-DAY 


Whom He borrowed from life of the olden day, 
With wisdom and wit of the kindliest way 
To word in a language rich and quaint, 

With never a smudge and never a taint,— 

But old “Uncle Remus”, with smile as bright 
As the gleam thro’ the dark of a star-kissed night— 
Forever the “little boy’s” dusky saint! 

What has he done, this Georgia son 
Whom the millions now have just begun 
Truly to love and appreciate? 

He saved to the world ere it was too late 
The character, lore and language true 
Of a vanishing type of our brothers who 
Were artless children of wonderful art, 

Who labored and loved in a country’s heart— 

He made them enduring for me and you! 


T O another Georgia poet, Lanier—to whom, with Poe, 
Mr. Bickers pays his personal tribute as one of the two 
great American “real poets”, the author of this volume has 
sung—endeavoring to tune the words to some of the musical 
cadences of Lanier’s greatest work: 

“Out of the hills of Habersham, down through the valleys 
of Hall,” 

He saw the sign of the One Divine, his ear caught a heavenly 
call, 

And all through the stretches of Georgia he followed the 
prints of His feet, 

On the homely hills, in the rippling rills—heard ever a har¬ 
mony sweet; 

In the rock-ribbed seams of Rabun’s Gap, in the gray Stone 
Mountain high, 




DANIEL GARNETT BICKERS 


35 


In the forest of pine he could trace design of the Master who 
once passed by ; 

On the painted stone of the stream-bank where the red Chat¬ 
tahoochee flows, 

In the waving grain of the rolling plain, or here where the 
Cherokee rose 

In its modest mood offers reverence, he read God’s message 
clear, 

And he set God’s word to music, stirred all hearts that they, 
too, might hear; 

From the highland where Chickamauga rears to kiss the 
clouds in the sky, 

To the Tybee light where day and night the stately ships 
sail by; 

From the silent depths of the rugged earth with its treasure 
hid below 

To the cool, calm scene of savannas green—he followed, God’s 
truth to know; 

From the skyland clear where old Yonah waits to welcome 
the sun in air 

To the marshes of Glynn—he has vested them in a glorious 
radiance of prayer; 

He could hear God’s whisper in murmuring streams, see God 
in the earth’s full breast, 

He could feel God’s care for the marsh-hen where she trust¬ 
ingly builded her nest; 

And then with a deft translation he could ’prison the thought 
divine, 

So that songs he wrote held a heavenly note to interpret each 
God-writ sign. 



36 


JUST A-VERSE-A-DAY 


T HE evening the news reached Savannah of the death of 
Frank L. Stanton, the lines below were penned. Mr. 
Stanton was for many years a close friend to Mr. Bickers 
whom he lovingly nicknamed, “Da-NI-el”, as if “Daniel” 
were “denial”. It is interesting to note when Joel Chandler 
Harris held the position on the Savannah paper now held by 
Mr. Bickers, Stanton began his newspaper career in the same 
office—coming from his native Carolina town to Savannah 
to begin working for himself. To Stanton, from an expression 
that was among the last words of the first poet-laureate of 
Georgia, Mr. Bickers wrote: 

He wrote: “A little way. . . 

Until God’s day.” .... 

And then God, list’ning, sent 
A messenger for him. . . He went! . . . 

He had been pure in heart, 

Guileless in thought, loyal to art— 

Yet artless in simplicity of life, 

And one apart 

From earth’s unseemly strife. . . . 

Beauty and music and all loveliness, 

The light and help and hope that cheer and bless, 

The music and the harmony of love— 

These were the things of all his world, above 
The common dirt of earth. . . and so. . . 

When he was called, he had, indeed, “a little 
way to go.” 


M ISS MILDRED RUTHERFORD, of Athens, was 
• one of the admirers of the work he did while in Athens. 
Her encouragement and appreciation were inspiration to him. 
He has written several verses, on occasions, directly in tribute 





DANIEL GARNETT BICKERS 


37 


to the work of this loyal Southern woman. It was while 
thinking of her work, doubtless, that he wrote the following, 
on “Woman, Historian:” 

Men may write history—and make it. Women know it first. 
They read the motives deep and hidden, best and worst, 
Which prompt the action of the leader, Man. They read the 
signs 

Before the man himself has formed the purpose, and they 
know the lines 

Along which, secretly, Ambition tempts; they are the con¬ 
fidantes 

Of smouldering hatreds; they intuitively can translate a 
glance, 

A nod, a frown, a whitening face—and sense intrigue afar; 
They know, before the declaration’s made, the aims of lords 
of war— 

These ladies, maids and mistresses, these mothers, sisters, 
wives, 

Know all the covered springs of power in all the leading 
lives— 

And never will true history be written till the cleaving pen 
Of woman shall record the things she knows about a nation’s 
men! 


U PON the recent celebration of the seventieth birthday an¬ 
niversary of Bishop Warren A. Candler, who was presi¬ 
dent of Emory College when Mr. Bickers was a student at 
Oxford, the following lines were written—a tribute to a life 
which had its effect upon thousands of men who are now in 
middle, active life over the South: 




38 


JUST A-VERSE-A-DAY 


I cannot think of what the years, three score and ten, 
Have done to him; for, blow on blow, 

He has matched Time, day after day, a Man with men, 
And given it as good, I know, 

As ever it has sent; I do not see that wear 
And work have done more than to fit 
Him for still greater things—his heart will ever dare 
The service loving; he will quit 
Only when he shall be promoted! . . . But I try 
To count the mighty blows that he 
Has dealt this evil, that hypocrisy, this high 
And impious iniquity, 

The other low and stealthy error. . . Time has not 
Left marks upon him in its rage, 

But he, while others failed—their efforts nigh forgot— 
Has left his imprint on the Age! 


O NE day a young school girl asked Mr. Bickers for a 
sentiment for her “memory book”—and watched him 
grind it out utterly impromptu: 

You ask me if I will not write some verses for you; then 
Give me a subject, “Memories”? Pray, will you tell me when 
You reached the reminiscent age, to live but in the past, 

And feast on recollections sweet from out the shadowy, vast 
“Once-was”? The pink of youth is still upon your girlish 
cheek— 

Ah, counterfeit’s the serious mein with which you, dreaming, 
speak! 

Now, twenty, thirty, forty years from now you may, indeed, 
Ask for a poem on “Memory”—for then your heart may need 
The dear old-bygone days of yore, and then you’ll sit and 
sigh, 

You’ll wish and dream them o’er and o’er beneath the sunset 
sky. 




DANIEL GARNETT BICKERS 


39 


O N another day, the same city editor of the doll-leg inci¬ 
dent, asked the associate editor for a special verse on the 
“William Goat.” A reporter amended the motion by sug¬ 
gesting one on “The Kangaroo”. In twenty minutes the 
double order was served up. “The William Goat and the 
Kangaroo”: 

Consider now the William Goat, 

Bewhiskered, horned, complete, 

Engarbed in goodly raiment, coat— 

And sometimes pants; his feet 
Are nimble, and his appetite 
Is versatile, no doubt; 

But while ’tis proudly held in sight 
He has no tail to speak about. 

Or, note the curious Kangaroo— 

Appendage caudal’s strong, 

Quite big enough to make a few 
Whole billy-goats go wrong; 

And yet he does not proudly hold 
His tail high up in air; 

He keeps it low—he is not bold— 

But, my! what deadly wallop’s there! 

And so from these ensamples I 
Analogy have found: 

In Billy’s tiny tail held high 
And Kangy’s on the ground ; 

It’s usually the man who’s got 
But little makes the show— 

The fellow who can hit the spot 
In modesty ’s content to go! 



40 


JUST A-VERSE-A-DAY 


I HAVE touched lightly upon the different types of verse 
which this “versatile verse-maker” has indulged in, as in¬ 
dicative of the shifting moods that envelop him during the 
days of his long newspaper confinement. 

The volume proper contains other of his verses which have 
cropped out adown the years, arranged and classified by the 
author himself—a poem for each transient feeling, waiting for 
the leaves to be turned. In the words of Bryant, dedicated to 
the universal Poet: 

“What witchery hangs upon this poet’s page! 

What art is his the written spells to find 
That sway from mood to mood the willing mind!” 



JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 
JUST AMONG OURSELVES 



























JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 

JUST AMONG OURSELVES 

■ g & 

ROUGH ASHLARS 

These fragmentary things 
The delving of the day occasionally brings 
Up with the mass of product of my work— 
They are unfinished and unpolished; for I 
cannot shirk 

The pressing urge of other steady task. 

One day, it may be, I shall ask 
Time off to take these nuggets laid aside 
And test them, cut them, finish, polish, 
if I may, 

The best of them—perhaps they can abide 
The better time and opportunity to make 
Them fit for showing for their inner sake! 


ENVOY! 


I do not wish that song of mine be sung 
By famous tongue; 

I do not care that o’er my written page 
A critic sage 

Shall say: “Well done!” and pass 
The penciled portion from my heart 
To far posterity, for students, classic-trained, 
To scan and con. ... Be this my part: 


(43) 







44 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


I wish some simple song I write 
Shall find its way 

To cheer a life, and bear it hope and light 
And brighter day! 


THE CRITIC 


In the Royal Academy. . . . array 
Of fine old portraits by the masters... . On a day 
When visitors were welcome, thither flocked 
Eminent and expert tailors... viewed the frocked 
And collared mighty peering from the canvass¬ 
es. I catch 

One muttered echo: “Bah! the waistcoat but¬ 
tons do not match!” 


VERDICT 

I. 

One was inspired, 

And sang out of his heart. 

Passion divine had fired 

His spirit; so he breathed his part 

Unheedingly—for One to hear, 

One other heart to feel the thrill his own, 
One other heart alone, 

One heart, in spite of distance, near. 

II. 

Another, to a chosen few, 

A company of critics, those who knew 
The quality of song, made effort fine 
Of voice, his best! . . . For they 







JUST AMONG OURSELVES 


45 


Were to give by authoritative sign 
Their praise—or condemnation—they must say 
If he were worthy, and they must acclaim 
His genius to fame. 

III. 

Unknown to either, then the Universal Ear, 
The universal human heart, was near 

To feel and hear. 

That Audience Invisible at last 
Upon the songs a final verdict passed. 


THIS 


When I have written this, these lines 
Irregular, imperfect, blundering signs 
To one who may chance understand, 

What have I done ? These words, written by hand, 
In characters distinctive, or else typed in form 
Of letters like the staple norm 
Of any alphabet—what do they signify? 

I will not answer what they are, or why. . . 
New, strong, slight—nothings? They must be 
Living forever now—they are small parts of Me! 


MY WORDS 


Oh, one day I shall know 
How in a careless moment I 
Said just a little nothing—and I knew 
not why!— 

And never dreamed that it was so 
Just timed to hurt! One day 








46 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


In some quite unexpected way 
I shall discover what a keen, 

Sharp cut it caused, a pain that lasted 
through the years! 

And then, perhaps—I hope it so!— 

I may in fullness know 
That still another casual word 
Gave joy and hope, and warmly stirred 
One whom I did not think had heard 
It said. . . Some day—no matter their 
intent— 

I may discover what my words have really 
meant! 


TENANTS 


Too many of us are but tenants who merely are tilling the soil 

Of another; too many of us live in the houses of landlords, 
and toil 

For them, asking seed from their granaries, supplies from their 
store; 

When the year is all done we have naught but their portion— 
no more. 

Too many of us, so, in our thinking must borrow the seed 
from some great, 

Wealthy mind, which by ownership rightly can claim the 
far-bounded estate; 

It were better to own by our earnings a spot for a house of 
our own, 

And cultivate well just about us a patch we have purchased 
alone. 





JUST AMONG OURSELVES 


47 


THE IMAGIST 


The pencil is his pen. . . . 

Words are his pigments. . . And strong eyes 
He has, and sharp. . . . He paints—among 
things as they are— 

Things as they are. ... in all 
Their clashing—or harmonious—colors. . . . 
And because 
He makes them real, 

He is the artist of exquisite cruelty. . . . 
Others may please. .. but if he cannot thrill— 
He shocks us with the truth! 


COMPLEMENT 


This bit of Me, 

A fragment of my Thought— 

Not a mere remnant, but an element of Soul 
And Mind as one compelling Whole, 

Is complementary—as every thought may be— 

To the great heart and reason of the universe. . . . 
I sought 

A figure to reveal the fine 

Analogy: A scrap of stone upon the pile 

Of raw material for building by design 

A temple fair, complete; and while 

That bit of stone 

Is but alone 

The fragment of the vast, original, age-old, created 
mass 

Of marble hid for aeons in the earth— 

And while it matches yet the secret place 






48 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


From which it came, its worth 
Is measured by the gift and grace 
Of fitness unto all the other stones assembled now 
For the designed construction; how 
Nigh-perfectly it may be complementary unto the 
others, great and small, 

Here measures its completeness as a fragment. . . 
So with all 

And each. . This bit of Me: Let it remain a frag¬ 
ment, it will pass; 

A remnant, it will die; a complement, and it may 
give 

Unto the Universe a newer power to live. 


WORDWARE 


For some of us whose wares are words 
They may become so commonplace, 

So trite and shop-worn they are stale— 
Of life and freshness lack the grace. 

Some of our samples may be seen, 

Like merchandise that is displayed— 
A ten-cent window’s showy spread, 

Or—jewels of the purest grade. 

They do not mean so much, I fear, 

To us who handle them alone, 

Who handle them as stock in trade, 
And claim but few to call our own. 





JUST AMONG OURSELVES 


49 


Yet on occasion we repair 

To secret rooms behind the lock 
To choose for some especial use 
A rare one from our private stock. 

Or, better, when the flower-girl blind 
Upon the street gives us a rose, 

We kiss the petals, pass it on 

To one we love. Rare words are those! 


OWED 


“You ask me why I am working away,” 

Said a cheerful man I met 
Who was singing and working the livelong day; 
“Why, I owe the world a living,” he’d say, 

“And I’m trying to pay the debt.” 

And so he was doing his duty best, 

Trying to give, not get, 

Adding his measure of effort, lest 
He’d soon be owing still more for rest; 

He was trying to pay the debt. 

And thus he has taught me a lesson true, 

One I shall not forget: 

The world owes me naught for my passing through, 
But I owe the world my fare, I do! 

Am I trying to pay my debt ? 


NOT “REQUIESCAT” 


The joke will be on them, my friends who write, 
“At rest” upon the slab of stone to mark the spot 
Where they shall lay my worn-out body down. 







50 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


Rid of its burden, then my soul in flight 
Will have but just begun its work. For there is not 
Attraction in a heavenful of idleness, and for my own 
Still highest, fine desire, my faith has seen 
An after-world of busier life than here, a free, 

Fair chance to do the many things that keen 
Ambition could not compass for the clog and load 
Of earthly things.. . There is the endless, open road! 

Engrave no line upon my tombstone—it were jest 
To say of me, when I am gone: “At rest!” 


AMEN! 


I read the other day 
In casual way 

A list of the last-words of famous men. . . 

And then— 

They held an int’rest keen for me— 

I thought: You see, 

While I am not and never may be great, yet I 
Must one day die; 

What then may be 

My last expression, whispered low, 

Before I go? 

This will it be: All life has been 

A mystery, and I have seen 

But through a glass so darkly oftentimes; but now 

I know the reasons and the why and how 

Of all God’s dealings; as He holds my hand, 

Sincerely I can murmur, “Now I understand!” 





JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 
BY LIGHT OF THE HOME FIRE 






JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 

BY LIGHT OF THE HOME FIRE 


A MYSTERY 


A baby looked at me—a baby, I should say, 

Some nine months old—looked at me in a baby’s 
simple way! 

Now, if a man, full grown, my equal in all wise, 
Had looked at me with level eyes, 

In understanding comradeship, in cold 
Proposal of exchange; or, bold 
In fair defiance—such encounter merely meant 
The commonplace, the usual incident 

If charming woman’s eyes looked into mine, 

Shy in their modesty; or, giving sign 
Of challenge, inquiry, or invitation—then 
Barring a thrill, it is occasional experience given men. 

Or if maturer age—the mother’s softened gaze, 

The father’s steady counsel, gleaned of days 
Of life in action; or the veteran’s, wise 
With offer of advice—I understand these eyes. 

But I am stronger, and, too, strangely weaker, now; 
Older—and younger in a moment—how, 

I know not. . . For a baby, not yet grown to art, 
Looked up into my face, and through my eyes, into 
my very heart! 


(53) 




54 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


HOME: HEART 


“Home is where the heart is,” so has said 
One of old time. And I have read 
Into and out of that fine sentiment 
Another truth than that which first appears; 

’Tis true that while the feet may roam 

Unto the earth’s-end, still at home 

The heart remains, to all intent 

Of love and loyalty. The hopes and fears, 

The sacredness—they cluster round 

That home-spot and they make it holy ground. 

And this is true: Home is the source and origin 
Of life; just as the heart within 
Is vital, sending out its streams through all 
The body, so the home pours forth a living stream 
Into the nations and society. The call 
Is now to keep that vital source so pure 
That fountain clean, that ideal dream 
Of yet a better race shall be fulfilled in part; 
Home is not merely where the heart may be, 
Home is supremely more, it seems to me. 

Home is the Heart! 


ON THE EVE 


When you come back to me from out the shadow-land, 

I shall be waiting, dear—and I shall understand! 

And with you, Love serene will come, and then we two, 
Seeing her Gift, shall know that Love is always true! 






BY LIGHT OF THE HOME FIRE 


55 


I WAIT A LITTLE WHILE 


Sweetheart, one day—it may be soon, or distant, yet down 
life’s sweet way— 

The Messenger will come for one of us. We both may not 
go then 

Together, hand in hand, each lending other strength to pray. 
For once in all the years, one of us must into the Great 
Unknown 

Step tremblingly—alone! 

There was a time, back in the selfish, thoughtless hours, when 

I prayed that I might first be called; I could not bear 

The piercing thought that I should be bereft 

Of love and sympathy, your kiss, your hand-clasp, to be left 

In loneliness a wanderer whose heart is buried where 

His treasure lies in cold and pulseless earth; I could not think 

How I could wait and suffer so! 

But now, as nearer draws that Day, I know 
I shall not fear so much the time, nor shrink 
From what must be—and must be for the best; and if He 
wills, 

He who can never violate His love for us, I willingly shall 
wait 

While you, dear heart, go first—oh, just a little way ahead; 
I still shall pray—I cannot spare you long. . . . The hills 
Fade, toward the sunset; and I stand 
Just in the edge of that mysterious land, 

As one who listens for the call of mate to mate. . . 

You cannot suffer grief—be mine the dread, 

Keen parting anguish if it needs must be; may you be spared— 
I suffer gladly for your sake! . . And then, 

While I am waiting for that little space, I know that when 
You go into His presence, in your purity prepared 




56 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


To meet Him unabashed, your heart will turn, swift as love’s 
thought, to me— 

Your loving intercession then will be 
My guaranty and passport into Paradise, your welcome not 
the least 

Of happiness in Heaven for me, as you shall come 
In radiant beauty, now supernally increased, 

Your kiss upon my lips to let me know at last that I am— 
Home! 


“BEHOLD THY MOTHER” 


“Woman, behold thy son!” He said. To her He spoke as 
unto one 

Who typified the universal Woman. It has been 
Thus since the race began. The little mother of the world 
has seen 

In every man—the babe, the lusty youth, the aged—each, 
Her Son, 

The fruit and sacrifice of love she spent, a vital part 
Of her—flesh of her flesh, heart-blood of her very heart, 
What she has been, and is, and what she longs to be 
She sees and plans and dreams of—in his future; she, 

This little mother of the world, Maternity Incarnate, lives 
Forever in Her Son—the type of man—to whom she gives 
Her life, here and hereafter. . . through eternity! 

Then to the man He spoke, to him who had been nigh 
To Him, who had interpreted His heart, and said: “Behold 
Thy Mother!” In this man He saw the type of high 
Development of manhood, fine, and pure as tested gold. 

Not to the man but unto Man He spoke: “In Her behold 
thy mother;” she, 





BY LIGHT OF THE HOME FIRE 


57 


Not Mary— Mother, the incarnate one, Maternity— 

She gave man being; she, before he was, gave of her life for 
him; 

She gave herself to him; she held him ’neath her heart; in dim, 
Uncertain hopes at first, she planned for him a shining way; 
She suffered, toiled, wept, and braved the unknown dangers 
of the day 

And nameless fears of night. 


.... Behold, oh, Man, in her, 
In Woman, wheresoever she may be, The Mother! If she 
were 

Less than all that the race would bankrupt be, and sure decay 
Would seize us; paupers we should go before the Highest 
Arbiter! 


“GIVE THEM MY LOVE” 


“Give them my love.” So mother’s letter closed; 

She spoke thus, meaning her grandchildren, my 
Own girls and boys. . . I have supposed 
She meant, down in her heart of hearts, that I 
Should do far more than merely tell them how 
She loves them, pass the pencil portion of her heart 
On to these children. . . Thinking now, 

Just what her love has been for me, to me, a part 
Of all my life, I think she gently purposed I 
Should give the same deep love that to her children she 
Has giv’n—and that is why 
Each day and all day-long I try— 

Aye, through the night—to be 

True to my children as she was to me! 





58 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


COMPLIMENT 

“She’s like her mother,” someone said 
About a little girl I know. Her head 
Went just a little higher, and her eyes 
Told she was pleased and proud to hear 
That said of her. . Ah, how I prize 
That tribute, too—and still I fear 
I cannot say which made me prouder then 
To hear it said or gladly notice when 
’Twas said, how she, delighted, claimed 
The honor and the privilege. . . . For I 
Could not have through the listings named 
A finer thing! . . . No wish of mine 
Could be for her so high and fine 
As this: That she shall more and more 
Like to her mother come to be— 

May it be said, repeated o’er and o’er, 
“Your mother, dear, in You I see!” 


THE INTERPRETER 


There is no man, however crude, 
Unpolished, rude, 

Prosaic, practical and plain, 

Who has not, hid away 

Down in his heart, a song his very own, 

One he has authored by himself alone. 

The big world may 

Have never heard it. . . There is One, 

A woman, loving him, who knows 

Its words and music, how it goes 

In all its variations, grave to gay. 






BY LIGHT OF THE HOME FIRE 


59 


FATHER AND DAUGHTER 


I have known comradeships between 
Father and son—stronger was never seen! 

I have seen mother and daughter bound 
By ties of intimacy—ne’er was found 
A lovelier sight! And I have known 
Mother and son in fine devotion grown 
Into companionship so beautiful and true 
’Twas inspiration. . . . Once I knew 
Another comradeship more rarely seen, 

A perfect fellowship between 
Father and Daughter; and in this, I know, 
Accord more exquisite and delicate; for so 
She tuned her heart to every mood he felt, 

In sympathy with her his heart could melt— 
Yielding and strengthening, together they 
Made perfect union through a perfect day. 


ON A BIRTHDAY 


Above her head the years are passing, yet— 

She minds them not; the number of them she may quite forget; 
She has no time to pause and bow and grieve—and wait 
For them to touch her; even Time is much too late 
To leave his tokens on her life. 

She has had more to do than merely count the days 
And note their outer clash and strife; 

In peaceful, pleasant ways 

She has been quite too busy to grow old! 

Has she not treasures to be kept—more precious, aye, than 
gold: 

Her house, her flowers and her Home? And still above 
Even these priceless treasures, too, an all-embracing love! 






60 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


PROMOTION 


Dear heart, some morning when I go away 
To meet the duties of the day, 

To bear its burdens, learn its lessons, I 

May not come back to you. And you will wonder why! 

If I should not return, you will remember this: 

That I pressed on your lips with parting kiss 
A secret: I am on probation here, 

In training for a w T ork that will endure; 

I am in school, where best endeavor is the mere 
Preparing for the calling high. 

Know this: If I come not then back to you 
I have been tried and tested and found fit 
For that commission great, and it 
Has found me ready. So, the Master, sure 
That I am worthy, would now have me do 
Service supreme. . . . Come, then, and be 
Again the inspiration and reward for me! 


TWO LIVES FOR ONE 


Twice she has lived for me. Once long ago 
She lived in spite of agony and pain and all 
The dread and suffering, that I might know 
Existence. To that courage fine and brave 
Of Her I owe the fact that now I am. The call 
Was close; she answered it . . . Then thro’ long 
years she gave 

Her life, day at a time, an hour, then another— 
So unstintingly in sacrifice, my Mother! 







BY LIGHT OF THE HOME FIRE 


61 


A LEGACY 


I do not care just what the world at large shall estimate 
My life to be, if it shall count me rich, if it shall rate 
Me great; this is my one ambition, my one wish to be: 

“He was a Gentleman!” I’d like my son one day to say of me. 

I do not care if I’m left out of future “Who is Who”— 
The big world may not, after all, quite know just what I do; 
I’d have those who may know me best my finest virtues see; 
And “He was such a gentle Man!” I’d have my daughters say 
of me! 


MY MOTHER’S SON 


Help me to keep in mind today I am my mother’s son! 

She gave me life; so help me, Lord, to live— 

Live so that when my race is run, 

Live so that when my task is done, 

I may have something for her love to give— 

Help me to keep in mind alway: “I am my mother’s son!” 


COMPLETE 


“How much, dear, do you love me?” 

I asked my baby girl one day, 

When all the skies above me 

Were bright—to hear what she would say. 

A moment then she pondered; 

She bowed her head, each curling lock 
A question, as she wondered: 

“I love you all around the clock!” 








62 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


FATHER TO SON! 


I am making my last will and testament. . . . 

I am intent 
That it shall be 

Sincere, the heart of me! . . . And I devise 
That otherwise, 

My son shall have to hold 

His father’s fond ambition bold— 

And unattained; that he shall see 
The visions once vouchsafed to me, 

And then, 

Man among other conquering men, 

Shall reach the goal I did not reach, attain 

The realized and finished dream I could not gain! 


WHAT WE MEAN 


I talk a lot to her, I know, 

Sometimes almost the whole day through. 
Then as to sleep at night we go, 

I sum it all in “I love you!” 

She tells me lots and heaps of things, 

Of what she’s done and means to do, 
Then, tired of talking, ah! she sings; 

The sweet refrain is: “I love you!” 

But if we neither one should say 

A word for hours and hours, we two, 
Both then would understand the way 
We always mean just, “I love you!” 






BY LIGHT OF THE HOME FIRE 


63 


THREE PICTURES 


Have you, tucked secretly and sacredly away, 

A picture of your mother, as she seemed to you 
The very first time ever, in a baby-day, 

You can remember her? Have you a true, 
Later, heart-mental image of her when 
You saw her last ? Nobody else has them, for they 
Are yours and yours alone. Then, 

Oh, have you thought it through: 

Why that last likeness was not like the first ? . . . 
And now 

Can you think—softly, tenderly! just how 

She will appear when next you see 

Her face—how beautiful then she will be? 


SHADOW-SHELTERED 


I looked for Love along the highway bright 
And in the streets resplendent with the light, 
Amid the busy throngs that came and went— 
And found her not . . . Nor was I then content. 

I called for Love where music filled the air, 
Where laughter rang and joy was debonair; 

But no one heard me of that happy throng, 

My call trailed out in echo of the song. 

And then I took the lonely path that wound 
Along a mem’ry-way, by hallowed ground, 

And in the silent shadows I could see 
One sitting . . . There Love waited, true, for 
me. 






64 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


GIRL AND FLOWERS 


Did you never notice, now, 

Upon the screen or stage or in real life, just how 
A girl lifts from its carton with a care 
A bunch of roses, beauties fragrant, rare 
In exquisite attraction—how she holds 
The cluster like a burden precious, folds 
The topmost buds then to her lips, 

Adores them, kisses them, and murmurs in 
Their pearly petal-ears sweet nothings, slips 
The bunch of sweetness in the hollow of her arm 
As if to shield it from the chance of harm— 

And then, involuntarily, as if’t had been 
Maternal habit from the days of Eden to this day, 
Begins to rock it, nestled near her breast— 

For all the world as older women have a way 
Of picking up from where it lay 
And fondling gently as they may, 

A Baby . . . The reason you have guessed! 


WHERE ARE THE CHILDREN? 


“Where are the children?” . . . She, 

A visitor, inquired as she paused briefly at the door, 
Expectant, pained then and—accusing. . . . He 
Looked then at Her—at her who bore 
With him the burden of the home. Their glances 
fell— 

They had no word to say to Love, no list of chil¬ 
dren’s names to tell! 

“Where are the children ?’. . . At another door 
Love stood—and saw upon the floor 






BY LIGHT OF THE HOME FIRE 


65 


The toys discarded. . . ’Twas the servant then 
Who made reply, “Some there, some yonder,” . . no, 
she knew not when 

They would return. . . Mother? Away! 

Father? Not home since yesterday. 

“Where are the children ?” . . . So Love asked again— 
This time from her accustomed place 
Within the home—for there she lived! Now when 
She asked, it was in tender and habitual solicitude . . . 
And as she spoke, the face 

Of one appeared—a grown-up son—and following 
Trooped happy, bright grandchildren, noisy brood, 
And many of them. . . Softly to herself hear Love 
now sing! 


NEIGHBORS 


I took a house, a cottage neat, 

Upon a friendly, homey street; 

A bit of garden ’round it lay, 

With plants and flowers here and there, 
Familiar blooms of everyday, 

A shrub or two of rather rare 
Appearance . . . I’m the usual kind; 

And in the garden now I find 
Some plants I know at once by name, 

Their families and kin, the same 
I cannot say of others—they 
At first are strangers. Oh, but soon 
They smile at me; I learn the way 
They live from Autumn clean to June . . . . 
I have a home here snug and sweet, 

Upon a friendly human street. 





66 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


HEART’S-EASE 


My life was like the winter white 
With snow .... until the hour 
Love came . . . one night 
In Spring .... and now my heart’s 
in flower. 


HER PICTURE? 


I hold her picture. Fair it is to me, 

And beautiful in every line, 

In every light and shade, with joy I see 
Her likeness fine. 

But in my heart her Image lives and glows— 
A living spirit-loveliness; 

And round my heart it wraps itself and grows, 
My life to bless. 

But neither painted portrait exquisite 
Nor mirrored, dreaming imagery 

Can, as her living presence by me, quite 
So lovely be! 


WE, CHILDREN 


We are but children ... all of us .. . Sometimes we boast 
About our puny strength . . . and when the day is bright, 
We bravely wander far afield . . . self-confident . . . almost 
Forgetting home and Father . . . But the Night 
Creeps up o’er shadowy hills and woods . . . and . . . then 
We fly for refuge to the Father’s arms again . . again! 








JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 
WITH OUR SWEETHEARTS 









JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 

WITH OUR SWEETHEARTS 


EVOLUTION 


I. 

My heart was whole . . . and others pitied me, 

They who had felt the precious wounds and known 

The sweet, rare anguish that has ever been 

The portion of the loving ... I could be 

Serene in innocence—and ignorance—alone 

I walked my way, believing vainly it were almost sin 

To be a casualty. I boasted my sincerity! . . . And still 

Untouched, unstirred, came once to me a Thrill— 

I know not whence. Oh, I have, yes, now and then, 

Envied the wounded .... waited for that thrill again. 

II. 

One day a Confidence brought one to me 
Who had been wounded—fatally in heart; 

And, introduced, he told me how that he 
Had long ago been victim of the dart 

That leaves such precious wound the ages through. 

’Twas suddenly that he was smitten, as if it had been 
A flash of golden lightning-flame from out the blue 
Of Heaven itself. . . And so I waited, hoping deep within 
My soul adventurous I might fall victim. ... It was vain, 
This daring, darling hope. . . Another fell . . . And yet 
again 

Another. . . .Still I was unscathed. But now and then 
( 69 ) 





70 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


Complaisant restlessness possessed me and I longed 
For Love’s assault, feeling as one irreparably wronged. 

III. 

Then I was conscious, barely, that another walked 
With me along life’s way, one like unto myself; and she 
Was all serene and innocent. We talked 
Of this and that, the other—then one evening we 
Discovered we were much alike. . . . And at the end 
Of one delightful day I knew she was my friend, 

And she—ah, she was gracious, too, to own 
My friendship was companionship. . . Alone, 

I left her—and with her, it seemed, a part 
Of something deep, unselfish in me—in my heart. 

IV. 

I saw her now and then . . . Soon, oftener! Between 
Us soon there was the bond that grew— 

Of sympathy and confidence, respect as seen 
In my near-rev’rence of her. Moments flew 
When I was in her presence, dragged most tediously 
If distance or if time had parted us. . . One day to me 
Came slowly the dread fear that I might lose 
Her sweet companionship. . . And then I knew 
I, too, was Victim—not by swift attack as I might choose 
From hearing others tell their stories, but by slow 
And surer way. ... Yes, wounded unto death. . and happy, 
too!— 

In that delicious misery which only lovers know. 

V. 

But when I sought to tell her all 

That had grown up and twined about my life and heart— 
Oh, I was coward—fears, hopes, mad desire that may appall 
An earnest, honest one! . . . Then something drew us both 
apart 




WITH OUR SWEETHEARTS 


71 


From all the world about, and we were deaf and blind 
To the whole universe—for us a world our very own 
Had been discovered. . . When I searched her eyes to find 
The one supreme response that could alone 
Lift me to life, there, timid and elusive at the first flamed up 
The light of Love.And brimming was my cup. 

VI. 

Since that first day when you and I 
Each saw the other’s heart, and knew 
That God had matched them for each other by 
The pattern of His love—you have been true. . . 

And I, despite the seeming outward tokens of a lapse 
In little tenderness and thoughtfulness alway, 

Despite forgetfulness, just now and then perhaps 
Occasioned by material circumstance, no day, 

No night, no hour, no moment there has been 

When every heart-beat, every breath, and every effort, fine 

Or failing, was not—all around, without, within— 

To keep you, Sweetheart, wholly mine! 


GIFT 


I do not ask your pledge, my dear, 
Always to love me so, 

And swear to constancy sincere 
As all the years shall go. 

Just love me now, my little one; 

This simple gift allow, 

And through the years from sun to sun 
Let every day be now! 






72 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


THE FIRST PROMISE 


She promised me again today; and in my heart 
A tender warmth diffused ; 

I claimed a kiss, love’s pledge, love’s blessing to impart— 
And then I mused: 

Once, years ago—how short and fleeting they have seemed!— 
She pledged me; and I swore 
To love and cherish; I remember, then I dreamed 
Of days before: 

One summer evening—soft the sky and sweet the air— 

A river singing near— 

No priest, no ritual, no service save my prayer, 

Her promise dear! 

Beyond that: In the past there was another day; 

Unknowing were we when 

Her eyes met mine; in them a wondrous secret lay. . . . 
We promised—then! 


LOVE SONG 


A painting is a silent poem, 

So I’ve heard them say 
Who have studied both, you know, 
Quite the critic’s way. 

Then I know a portrait fair 
That must surely be 
More than poetry—it is 
A song of love to me! 






WITH OUR SWEETHEARTS 


73 


VOW 

I will not say I love you, dear, 

For words are cheap at best— 

So easily they’re spoken—mere 
Forgotten whims expressed. 

I will not write: “I love you, dear”— 
For ink will fade at last, 

The snow-white sheet I’m using here 
Will soon be yellowed past. 

But I will live my love for you; 

My heart holds fast its creed: 

My life, love’s fine expression true 
In thought and word and deed. 


“THESE THREE” 


Faith came to me one day and offered rich reward 
If I would trust her but a day, 

And gave me surety enough amply to guard 
My int’rests. She would pay! 

Hope merely promised, made no bond, but offered me 
Her word alone the pledge to make 
Secure the pay for what I was to do or be. 

Could I her token take? 

But Love no guarantee assured, no promise gave, 

But bade me labor, sacrifice, 

And give my life to her. . . And willing, brave, 

I gladly paid the price. 





74 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


CAPRICE 


Love has been quite contrariwise with me: 
When I have tried so hard, you see, 

To be what Love would have me be, 

She is content to let it go at that 
And leave me flat. 

Love has been quite contrariwise with me: 
When I have wandered far, you see, 

And been what I should never be— 

Because she’s Love, she calls me o’er and o’er 
To love me—more! 


THE TRINITY 


Faith. 

Faith sees the real, invisible, and sure, 

Eternal things that will endure; 

For Faith has eyes which darkness, in or out, 

Makes more alert; and even Doubt, 

Arch-enemy of Faith, but spurs her on to see 
The truth, its permanence, its mystery. 

Hope. 

Hope now is less than Faith—and more; 

For Hope may hang upon a slender thread 

Which would not hold Faith up, when sore 

Afraid, Faith almost fell. Hope may be blind and tread 

The wandering path quite purposeless, save for desire; 

Or, Hope may have a reason, so aspire 

To be support and helper unto Faith. And when 

Faith has expired, Hope smiles serenely even then. 






WITH OUR SWEETHEARTS 


75 


Love. 

The greatest of these three, above 

The firmest faith, the fondest hope, is Love. 

And why? Because Love first implanted Hope within 
The human breast, and Love first taught the art 
Of Faith; Love ever, always, everywhere has been 
Back of and underneath and through the heart 
Where Faith and Hope have had abiding place; 

And Love is the supreme, supernal grace. 


ANSWERLESS 


I. 

“I, who have deep capacity for being loved, I love in vain; 
I, who can love most passionately, feel 
No warm response, and hope is echoed but by pain. 

The price I pay . . . There is no measure I may gain . . . 
Is there no balm the aching emptiness to heal ? 

Is there for me no hope to learn 
The mystic art which fans the flames that burn 
So low and flickeringly ? May I not yet acquire 
That subtle something in myself that stirs desire, 

That draws responsive passion in its eager fire?” .... 

II. 

“And I, who know not aught of loving, see 
The surging passion ever threaten me; 

I, who am cold clean to the heart and have no care 
That others should be drawn to me, am full aware 
Of ardor most impetuous unto me turned. . . 

But I am answerless; there has not burned 
Within my heart the faintest living breath. . . 

The mystery remains: My heart, abiding place of death!” 





76 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


BACKGROUND 


She wore a rose 

Against a gown of gray. . . 

She knows. . . . 

Her life has been that way. 

There had been sorrow in her life, 

And keen defeat that followed bitter strife. 
She was not bittered; and the change 
In her, by transmutation strange, 

But toned the setting where 

Her face, all radiant, warm and fair, 

Shined with a softer, sweet, 

Refined, new beauty, perfect and complete. 

She wears a rose 

Against a gown of gray. . . 

She knows. . . . 

Her life will be that way. 


UNIVERSE 

A little world of three, dear heart, 
Beneath a summer sky— 

And Love is queen 
Of the realm, I ween, 

And her subjects—You and I. 

A little world of three, dear heart, 
And I am Hope, you see, 

And you are Faith— 

And there is no death 
In our little world of Three! 





WITH OUR SWEETHEARTS 


77 


LOVE’S EYES 

One said that “love is blind”. And yet 

I know Love and I know that Love can see, 

And what she sees she never may forget 

If she is pleased with it, whatever it may be. 

In commonplaces, drab and gray, 

Love catches exquisite and half-hid glints 
And gleams of colors marvelous; no day 
May pass she does not vision rainbow tints. 

In dull, disordered, jumbled things, 

Love’s eager eyes find symmetry and grace, 

And, smiling ever as she softly sings, 

She sees rare beauty in the plainest, homely face. 

And so, I wonder if we err! 

Perhaps it’s Love alone can see aright— 

The gift of vision keen is given her, 

And only Love has super-human, clearest sight! 


PLEA AND SENTENCE 


If ’twere sin to love you, dear, 
I am steeped in sin; 

I could not reform, I fear, 

I could not begin. 

If ’twere crime to kiss you—say, 
Criminal am I; 

Sentence me for life, I pray— 
And I shall never die! 





78 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


MESSENGER 


One day 

Love met a little Sorrow on the way 
And summoned him as messenger 
To Her. 

And Sorrow, with his plaintive face 
And grace 

Of tenderness in pain, , 

Straightway 

Departed, sought Her out, 

With never doubt 
Of sympathy, and nestled near 
Her heart, and whispered in Her ear 
The message he alone could bear 

Aright. 

And when 
He told Her, then 
She knew 

That Love was true . . . that Love was true. 


TRANSLATION 


Each heart speaks in a language all its own, 

And somewhere in this wide, wide world of hearts 
Is there for each, one true interpreter alone 
Who only can read understanding^ its arts. 

So, somewhere love will one day find for you 
That True Interpreter who by her mystic art 
Will read the mysteries and secrets through 

Now writ in cipher in the language of your heart. 







WITH OUR SWEETHEARTS 


79 


BRIBERY 


Yes, dear, I’m now a can’idate, a-runnin’ of a race, 

An’ all my hopes o’ life depend on gittin’ o’ this place. 

I want to make my ’nouncement plain an’ state my platform 
true— 

My principles are centered in one little “I love you!” 

An’ if you don’t object to “rings” an’ women’s votin’, w’y, 
Jest march up to my ballot-box an’ vote a simple, “Aye!” 
There needn’t be another vote—I’d be elected then, 

An’ be the proudes’ victor that the country’s ever seen. 

For jest that single vote I’ll give a heart, a life, a love, 

An’ promise to be true to trust while heaven reigns above! 


CONVERT 


We had a love-feast ’tother night, 

Jest Molly, dear, an’ me; 

The meetin’ done us good, a sight— 

The most you ever see! 

I made a talk, on love in part; 

We sung together then; 

I led in pray’r right from my heart 
An’ Molly said, “Amen!” 

I told her my experience true; 

I seen her kind o’ start! 

I was exhortin’—she “come through”— 
There’d been a change o’ heart. 

I made a proposition, an’ 

Invited all to j’ine— 

An’ Molly give me her small han’ 

An’ I give Molly mine! 






80 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


LIVING PLEDGE 


I saw her in her beauty and I heard her voice so sweet and 
low— 

Far-off, it seemed, yet clear as in the days of long ago; 

I saw and heard, and yet she was beyond the reach of me, 
My eager arms embraced the empty air—strange!—mystery! 

Now she’s come home from out the dreamland where she 
seemed 

One sanctified from earthly touch; the light that gleamed 
From eyes of love on yesterday is burning brighter now, 

And she has brought with her a Living Answer to love’s vow! 


A LOVE SPELL 


Letters, letters, piles and stacks, 

By the morning’s mail in packs, 
Letters to arrange or mix— 

Ah, exactly twenty-six 
From Him—one whole alphabet; 
Which is fortunate; I’ll let 
Each remain in place just where 
I can find it, should I care 
To endeavor by some whim 
To select a thought from him, 

Turn his lit’ral message, make 
Quaint reply. Let’s see: I’ll take 
Here and there, to weave this spell, 
Now a letter; say, an “L”, 

Then as fate the one shall show 
I will further pick an “O”, 







WITH OUR SWEETHEARTS 


81 


Next, by chance as it may be, 
Draw a third, the letter, “V”— 
Having thus progressed so fast, 
“E” is easy for the last; 

“L” and “o” and “v” and “e”— 
That’s my answer, plain to see. 


TRAGEDY 


She had longed for Love to come to her, and dreamed 
In day, at night, like unto what ’twould be, 

The Great Experience—’twas so it seemed 

To her that it would come.And she 

Waited and watched and wished for it the while, 
Expecting he would greet her with a smile 
And lead her then into the fields of rare delight, 

Elysian land of fairest hopes and rarest joy, 

Where happiness through all the hours without alloy 
Would bring her visions heavenly. . . Her dream 
Came never true; Love came not radiant and bright— 
But to her brought the Tragedy supreme. 


ALONE? 


The shadow shrouded me. . . . Alone 
I went unto, into Gethsemane my own; 
For Hope, far off, had fallen quite 
Asleep; I could not see Faith’s face there 
in the night. . . . 

Alone ? . . . One stood beside me then 
In silent sympathy. . . . And when 
All others had forsaken, and above 
The very heavens mocked, came Love. 







82 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


THE HOPELESS 

When She shall come to me I shall be waiting near 
Th’ appointed meeting-place, a-hush to hear 
The first soft touch of footfall that shall tell 
That she remembered well 

Her promise, oh, so precious, whispered low and sweet, 
Her heart upon the lips which mine would meet 
In answer eager, passionate. . . . But, no— 

It cannot now be so. 

I cannot search for her like knights of old, I may 
Not fight for her and win, bear her away 
A willing captive; I must wait in vain 
Fast to my master, Pain! 


LONELY PATH 

There are some paths, dear heart, too narrow now 

For us to walk together, hand in hand. The shadows fall 

Across the way, and into it I go alone. I know not how 

Or why it should be so. I cannot hear your call 

In love and comradeship—save faintly; and I cannot see 

The light of your dear eyes—save dimly; for a space 

I grope in loneliness no human heart may share, 

No friendly touch may lighten now the load; no face 
May cheer. Now I have only faith and hope and—prayer. 


RE-PLEDGING 


I do not ask of you today 

Again a pledge. For far above 
All words of any, every tongue, 






WITH OUR SWEETHEARTS 


83 


Sweeter than song, the sweetest ever sung, 
In daily, newer proofs in every way 
I have your love. 

I do not promise you today 
Again to be—nor yet in part 

But wholly with each living breath 
And then beyond the incident of death— 
Yours only. I shall live each coming day 
For you, sweetheart. 



4 




JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 
FOR THE OUT-OF-DOORS 



JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 

FOR THE OUT-OF-DOORS 


DAFFODILS 


Once did Mother Nature prudent, counting for the days to 
come, 

Rainy days, perhaps, bethink her how she might lay by a sum, 

Treasure golden that might serve her in the times of pinch 
and stress— 

Who knew but that she might need it for an early Spring¬ 
time dress! 

So she stored the gold of Summer and the riper gold of Fall 

In the oft-forgotten corners where no prying eyes at all 

Ever would be searching for it. . . . My! the yellow-golden 
frills 

Mother Nature wears in March in worlds and worlds of 
daffodils! 


MOUNTAINS 

Here rear the mountains, monuments to God! 

Piles reared by Nature to Omnipotence! 

Night veils them, and then duskily they nod; 

Dawn wakes them, and they worship. . . Hence, 

First of all silent creatures, they 

Are kissed by sunlight of approaching Day; 

And last, upon the face of sleeping Might, 

Falls their farewell, the sinking Sun’s “Goodnight!” 

(87) 





88 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


WOOD-VIOLET’S BIRTH 


Know you whence the Violet came? Truly, no? 
Let me tell you: Long ago 
Ruled an austere, rugged king— 

Name was “Winter”—lord alone 
On a frost-fringed, frigid throne 
In a palace of glacier-stone. 

And he loved a nymph named “Spring”. 

But this tyrant’s awkward art 
Ne’er could win the maiden’s heart. 

So he bribed a cupid cunning, 

Chid him to the chase a-running, 

So to take the lovely maiden. . . . 

.... And a dart 
From the bow he lightly pressed 
Pierced her snowy, pulsing breast. . . . 

There—where purple blood-drops fell 
Trickling to the thirsty sod, 

Sprang up Violets, so they tell— 

Smiling through their tears to God! 


STARS AND FLOWERS 


I love the stars where God has writ 
In gold upon the page of blue 
His secrets infinite in cryptic record, fit 
Revealing of His power. . . . But who 
Has not gazed upward, rapt in awe complete, 

And crushed the miracles in blossom at his feet? 






FOR THE OUT-OF-DOORS 


89 


THREE BLOSSOMS 

On every nodding stem in Spring, 

If low or swinging far above, 

The blossoms breathe of but one thing, 
And that is—Love. 

In Summer’s lush and glorious day 
Then is no time to fear nor mope— 
Luxurious blooms in every way 
Express a—Hope. 

But late in Autumn, when the chill 
Of Winter, like a fearsome wraith, 
Is in the air—are blossoms still 
Speaking their—Faith! 


FOREST FIRES 

The red and yellow flecxs of flame 

Are twinkling in the verdant forest-sky; 
The sunset’s reddened, nor with shame— 

The Autumn winds with warning rustle by. 

The frosty breath but fans the fire; 

The mountain-side is glowing as it spreads; 
One says, “’Tis Summer’s fun’ral pyre”— 

Yet is no panic, still there are no dreads. 

The hint of coming cold is keen, 

And prudence preparation now inspires; 
And so these signals now are seen— 

Jack Frost is lighting all his Winter fires! 




90 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


CLEW 


Here on this maple leaf I found a spot 

Of crimson, such a vivid blot 

Of color that I wondered if a shot 

From Winter’s frost-built fortress had not sped 

Through Indian Summer’s haze of red 

And pierced hot fleeting Summer’s heart 

With ice-tipped dart— 

And left upon this leaf the tell-tale Autumn red 
Where Summer—bled! 


LARKSPUR 


“Now, do you know,” she asked one day, 
A little girl with winning way, 

“Just where the Easter bunnies grow, 
The ones that bring the eggs, you know ?” 

And when I said, in mild surprise, 

“They do not grow,” her twinkling eyes 
Quite pitied me my ignorance, 

As off she tripped with fairy dance. 

Returning—and her hands held tight 
Some fragile larkspurs, blue and white 
And pink—she held them up to me 
The center of each bloom to see. 

And there, in hues like Easter eggs, 
Concealed as for their nether legs, 

Were rabbits’ heads with ears and eyes 
And noses free from all disguise! 






FOR THE OUT-OF-DOORS 


91 


Out of each larkspur blossom rose 
A bunny’s bust with quivering nose; 
Now vanishes each skeptic doubt— 
From every bloom a head peeped out! 


CHEROKEE ROSE 

This dear little country mother of all other roses rare, 

Simple and unaffected, breathing the gen’rous air 
Of the Georgia hills and valleys—far up on the mountain 
side, 

Down in the river lowlands, and along the shore of the 
lake— 

Allwheres it grows contented. ... Its opened petals make 
A radiant star in the greenery, with the yellowed heart of 
gold, 

The same in its chaste simplicity as the Cherokee rose of 
old. . . . 

Her daughters fair have been cultured in the artificial air 
Of the hot-house, tenderly nurtured, developing wondrously 
there— 

Great glorious queens are some of them, rich in their velvet 
dress, 

Delicate gowns wear some of them, soft as a babe’s caress; 
Color—profusion of tinting; ravishing fragrance sweet, 
Winter and Summer they’re smiling, and where both the 
seasons meet, 

But back in the native heather, dainty in delicate grace, 

Is the mother of all the roses, content in her modest place. 

This little country mother of all the roses rare 
Must cling to the heather home-spot with love and a wistful 
care; 




92 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


Away, and a few strange hours, she droops and withers and 
dies ; 

To be at her best she must, smiling, live out under open skies, 

And her face is never so radiant as when, after storm has 
passed, 

It’s drenched with the tears of the heavens. . . And so, at 
last, at last, 

Away from the rich-red beauties, intoxicant with flame; 

Away from the cultured blossoms that in gorgeous gowning 
came, 

Away from the wearying changefulness, variety, and art 

Of her artificial daughters! Back, back to the mother-heart! 

The same she was in the years ago when Indian maiden kissed 

Her snowy lips and the same she’ll be when you and I are 
missed— 

Coming when Summer has called her, living her life of good 

In her own appointed home-place, in heather, on road-side, 
in wood— 

This mother of all the roses, dainty in delicate grace, 

With petals of alabaster, the light of God’s smile in her face. 


REVERIE 


The poplar leaf is yellowed. So each year 
At frost-time fall the poplar leaves. But here 
The pine stands, dark and green, the whole 
Long twelve-month through. Poplar and pine 
Seek their same food deep in the soul 
Of the answering soil, and the same shine 
Of the sun gives them life, and the rain 
Is the same as it falls for their thirst. 

They share of the best and the worst! 

And the pine sheds its needles each year, 





FOR THE OUT-OF-DOORS 


93 


Yet the green it can somehow retain, 

While the newness discards all the sere 
Growth that was. Both live and both change— 

One is bare half the year; one, evergreen—strange! 

It is nature. ... It is so, too, with men: 

In one, something holds through the changes; and yet 
There’s another must flourish a season, and then 
Unto circumstance pay stated measure of debt! 


WHITE DOGWOOD 

Perhaps it is because the throb 
Of unborn Summer’s heart as yet 
Is faint! The late frosts rob 
The world of life, none may forget! 
And so the tim’rous blossoms might 
For lack of red-hot life be—white! 

Perhaps now Mother Earth, serene 
And passionless reserv’dly gives 
The purity of chasest queen 

To this, her first-born, as it lives 
Courageously upon a bed of green, 
Reflection—as the North-winds go— 

Of whiteness of a cold and placid snow! 


OCTOBER BLUSH 

The lithe young tree stood beautiful and straight— 
Far in the virgin wood, exquisite in grace 
Of limbs. The Frost-man crept up late 
One still October evening to the place, 

And whispered to her. . . Shuddering, she shrank 





94 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


And trembled. . . .Then again he drew 
Nearer unto her and she drank 
His words in breathless fear: “Before the week 
Is gone, I strip your garments green!” How true 
His threat, she had but once to seek 
The confidences of her sisters old, older than she. They 
told her, all, the same 
Experience. . . In the night there came 
Clandestinely a lover, Shame, 

To work his magic. . . Then, next morning found 
Her blushing scarlet from the tip, clean to the ground. 




JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 
ALONG THROUGH THE YEAR 



JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 

ALONG THROUGH THE YEAR 


• g & 

“RESOLVED” 

Whereas I’ve resoluted pretty copiously in the past, 

An’ the resolutions somehow never seemed to wear an’ last, 
An’, whereas I find I’m limited in my resistive strength 
An’ am prone to be forgetful o’ my good resolves at length— 

An’ whereas I’ve ’bout concluded that it’s better to have not 
Resoluted then at all than to have straightway clean forgot; 
An’ whereas I b’lieve it’s better not to bite off more than I 
Can well chew—or I might choke! this resolution now I’ll 
try: 

Resolved I’ll go it easy as the New Year time draws nigh, 
Avoid the rash, impulsive pledge, an’ pass the promise by; 

I do subscribe to just one thing—an’ then I sweetly sleep: 
Resolved I’ll make no resolutions that I cannot keep! 


LONELY GARDEN 


Each heart must sometime, somewhere bear 
The burden of its own Gethsemane ; 

The sorrow and the trial come to each which none may share; 
Into the silent darkness but a little way—alone, perhaps it 
be— 

But dearest friend may never lead nor brother follow there! 







JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


9§ 


WHEN WINTER WENT AWAY 


When Winter went away, 

Then rude young March-wind hushed his turb’lous tone, 
And through the sighing pines he’d, murmuring, moan, 
And April wept a night and day; 

Then May-flower all her floral wreaths caressed 
And piled them lovingly upon his breast— 

When Winter went away! 

When Winter went away, 

The elves from out the Easter lilies stole apace 
To look upon his pale, cold, marble-smooth, calm face 
And frosted beard and hair of gray, 

And, shrinking, touched the shroud of shining, snow-wove 
white, 

And sang a tender requiem before they took their flight— 
When Winter went away! 

When Winter went away, 

The angels gently covered him with fragrant flowers 
And swept the storm-plumes back for hours and hours, 

And, towering toward the heavens, they 
Set up a white-capped mountain for a monument, 

And in the valley planted Freesias sweet with scent! 

When Winter went away. 


A ROUND DELAY 


It’s owing to the weather, whether an ode to Spring is just 
the thing just now; and so I wonder how ’twould do to 
write a slight, trite lyric quite out of the ordinary style, 
to raise a smile— 






ALONG THROUGH THE YEAR 


99 


Now, while the other things are coming up, including violet 
and buttercup and daisies—(by the way, today I recol¬ 
lected that I had a gentle cow once on a time, that, just 
to make her rhyme, I named “O. Daisy”— “O”, you 
understand for “Ox-Eyed”—and she died of rust, the 
watered stock!)—I must 

Get back unto my theme: I thought to dream a springy idyl 
lilting on its feet, of meadows sweet, and bursting buds, 
and wooing zephyrs, and that sort of thing 

The poets usually rant about, anent the Spring; perhaps slip 
in a jest or gibe or something of that ilk, of Gentle An¬ 
nie in her silk- 

En hosiery of rainbow hue—for bow-legs, probably—but two 
rude things deter me: One is the now recurring fling by 
editors about all “slush on Spring”; the other is the fact 
that just as soon as words line up with tune that chords 
with balmy, scented air of infant summer-time and all its 
rhyme, then there’s a reason to lose faith in this new 
season— 

Every time I start a rhyme and sing of Spring, before the 
thing gets into type the weather changes to a freeze, the 
breeze blows blizzardly, I sneeze the wheeze and every 
flower that grows—and blows— 

Shows symptoms of the runts and stunts—and then it snows! 
. . And so, until the editors warm up a bit, the weather¬ 
man decides upon a higher thing, I’ll try no hit with an 
apostrophe—nor even dash—to “Spring.” 



100 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


VALENTINE 


In Hope which hardly dared to ask, 

In ecstacy uncertain but divine— 

*Twas Diffidence begged Modesty in mask, 
“Will you not be my Valentine?” 

In Trust that now seems strange to me, 
Quite won by eager confidence of mine— 
How heavenly that welcome change to me! 
She said, “Ill be your Valentine.” 

And from that moment, far above 

All other moments, by each tender sign, 
By every token, every seal of Love, 

She has been true—My Valentine! 


SEED-TIME 


Hard hoofs of heavy horses tramping slow, 

And heels of clumsy boots that, restless, tread; 

The rude removal of brown rubbish dead 
And useless; the unwelcome visit so 

Disturbing to the stagnant soil thus long 
Settled and selfish, placid in decay; 

And then the plough-steel’s cruel plunge away 
Into the heart of earth with purpose strong! 

So: Progress, with its steady, grinding tread, 

Advances; virile hand now holds the reins, 

Guides to the furrow, and Reform upturns 
The lifeless mass all heedless of its pains; 

Sunshine and warmth let in, the fallow learns 
It may give life to seeds, bear living bread! 






ALONG THROUGH THE YEAR 


101 


PURIM 


From the far times of ancient history the fast 

And festival upon it following have come to us. And back 

Of Esther’s coming to the kingdom, past 

The long deliverance from Orient foes, the track 

Of this recurring celebration runs. Into the dim 

And misty times of primal peoples who began 

To note that with the solstice-time the rim 

Of sunshine broadened, hosts of Winter hedging man 

For weary siege-months, fled in rout, 

And Spring, the resurrection queen, stepped out 

To bring deliv’rance to her people who 

Were loved and served no less than they were true; 

“For such a time as this” the Spring-queen came 
Upon the kingdom of the seasons. ... By the same 
Old token is the fast, commemorating Winter drear, 

And then glad festival because the Spring is here. 


PERPETUAL EASTER 


I do not wait a weary year for Eastertide; 

Not yet do I abide 

A whole week through till ’round 

Again the first day comes in which abound 

The symbols of remembrance clear 

Of the Arisen Lord! Each morning now I hear, 

“Oh, He is ris’n indeed!” Each hour recalls 

His resurrection. Every moment falls 

In rhythmic beat: “He died, He lives; He died, He lives!” 

Each breath, each pulse-beat gives 

Me its assurance, even through the strife, 

“He lives again; therefore I Have eternal life!” 






102 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


APRIL 


No wonder April long ago 
Gained repute for fickleness, 

Placed just where she is, you know,— 
Will you blame or will you bless? 

Set between a boisterous churl, 

Rude, unmannered, raw and rough, 

And a gentle, winsome girl— 

There’s occasion quite enough! 

Changeable? You w~ell might be 
If positioned just her way; 

You’d be shifting, too, as she 

There between a March and—May! 


SHABBOTH 


Six furlongs traveled I, bearing my load 
Along the tortuous and crag-studded road. 

Oh, there were pauses for a night or half a night, 
When I lay down beside the way and made a light, 
Ate food and got a breath—but did not take 
The pack-strap off, a little break 
To give anew the strength to travel on. 

The seventh comes—the week of labor gone! 
Unstrap, unharness, leave the load outside, 

And with it every care! One day abide 
In this, the house of Rest—but not the rest 
Of idleness. Be glad today and sing, 

And to the altars of the spirit bring 
Choice offering—of happiness, of praise, 

Of prayer, upon this rest-day of the days! 






ALONG THROUGH THE YEAR 


103 


THE DAY BETWEEN 


The shadow of the cross falls dark across this day. 

Hope, sick to death, falls there beside the way; 

Love ministers and—weeps ; 

Faith, too, itself, now sleeps, 

Numbed and unconscious from the shock 
Of disappointment. The little flock 

Must through this darkness—wait! . . . Out where the days 
are born 

There is a hint—a Light! the promise of the Morn! 


VIA CRUCIS 


Today the cross I face, 

Symbol of service and of sacrifice and—grace! 

Aye, I would follow in His footsteps; I would live 
To give as He has died to—give 
Abundant life! . . . Unless 
I, too, take up my cross to bless 
The world in service and in sacrifice, 

I am not worthy of the price 
He paid for my redemption. . . So, 

Let me to my Golgotha go! 


SPIRITS OF AUTUMN 


Through these September days, beneath the softening autumn 
skies, 

A-quiver in the haze—are scores of silent butterflies; 

And I have fancied they are spirits flitting through the 
hours— 

Thought that perchance they may be souls of summer’s faded 
flowers. 








104 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


WHITSUNDAY 

They walk today all robed in white 
Who lately groped in darkest night, 

For they have seen the Light of Light— 
On them the Tongue of Fire 
Descended from the Heav’n on high, 

That all the world, as they passed by, 

May read and know the reason why 
The Spirit may inspire 
New hearts which have the vision keen 
To know what Truth and Service mean— 
Baptized for Sacrifice, for e’en 
Life-giving martyr’s pyre. 


THE “PRESENT” QUESTION 


For Him 

A bit of—nothing? yet 

Worth everything! nor will forever he forget 

The giving; as one sweetness sips 

From honej^ed flower, he takes it from her lips. 

For Her 

An emblem—endless—worth 
More than the treasure of all earth, 

He reckoned it, when all was done, 

And found the total: “Won and-One!” 

For Them 

Soft lights and softer music then, their love 
In whispered vows, with God above; 

The priestly blessing—laughter—smiles—and sighs— 
A strange new light in misty eyes! 





ALONG THROUGH THE YEAR 


105 


Forever 

And this in all the changeless past 
Is quite, at last, 

How Present turns to Future in a day— 
And love is life and life is love—alway! 


ON EASTER! 


Now He is ris’n, is ris’n indeed! 
Upon this fact the faith and creed 
Of Christians rest, 

If they, His foll’wers faithful sought 
The sign and seal of promise bought 
With service blest 
And blood of sacrifice He gave— 
They found it in His emptied grave. 

But He is ris’n anew today! 

He lives again! Along our way 
We see Him yet— 

In hearts which have been born anew 
We trace His image, clear to view; 
His seal is set 

In living service unto men— 

In sacrifice, He lives again! 

The living test supreme is still 
His resurrection; I fulfill 
His promised word 
When I, a living witness, show 
In all I do, where’er I go, 

My Living Lord, 

That all the waiting world may see 
His resurrection life in—Me! 





106 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


EPITAPH! 


The Old Year’s dead! 

And at his grave, there at the head, 

We would set up a monument; 

For he, with all his scars, 

And wounds, the mark that mars, 

Was quite a good sort after all. Intent 
We are to write 
Upon the tombstone white 
An epitaph to do him justice. So, 

Look as you go: 

There stands the monument to him, 

And in the twilight dim 

Appear the legends writ 

Indelibly upon the face of it 

Already—just what you and I 

Have done as he passed by 

Is there his epitaph, each word of ours 

A letter and each deed a word. . . 

And kindly angels have laid flowers 

There at the foot—by sweet forgiveness stirred! 


ON ST. PETER’S DAY 


I’ve scrutinized the list of saints, 

The martyrs called of old; 

I’ve loved, revered and honored them 
Whose hearts were living gold. 

I’ve found them honest, pious, true; 

Some gentle, some austere; 

These men who walked with God and felt 
No sin nor pride nor fear. 







ALONG THROUGH THE YEARS 


107 


Yet one appeals to me with more 
Completeness, when I’m faint— 
Or confident—for Peter’s such 
A human sort of saint! 


WHERE I MAY BE 


Oh, friend of mine, loved one, if you 
Should miss me at the Christmas time and find 
That I have not remembered you, I pray you do 
Not charge me with forgetfulness of mind, 

Nor negligence in love. In one of two 
Sure places I may be: 

Seeking for one who is an enemy to me, 

Asking his pardon, giving him my love that he 
Again may be my friend; or else I may 
Be searching for that one, who on a joyous day 
Has no one else to think of him. . . If you 
Should miss me, search for me in just these places two. 










* 


















JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 
IN QUIET PRAYER HOURS 









JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 

IN QUIET PRAYER HOURS 


A BETTER PRAYER 


I do not thank Thee, Lord, for paths of ease, 

For ways of pleasantness and pleasures sweet— 
So much as I give thanks for chance to seize 
The opportunity, the task to meet! 

I do not pray Thee, Lord, for easy ways, 

But for the strength to go till evening late; 

I do not ask for things to make the days 

More easy, but for grace that makes life great. 


GREAT GOD 


I cannot worship any god who is no bigger than 
Mere man! 

The god who earns my tribute, he must be 
Taller and finer than the best of men, and he 
Needs must be older, younger, wiser, too, 

More powerful and—loving; and One who 
Can match and master all the best 
Of men and—all the rest! . . . 

I cannot reverence a god, of any land, 

Whom I can understand! 


(Ill) 





112 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


IN JOSEPH’S GARDEN 
B. C. 

The tomb, a cavern dark and dank— 

The sepulcher, the end! In gloom 
They peered into its depths, and shrank 
In fear. By it no flowers bloom! 

A. D. 

The grave, a gate-way glorious, bright, 
Through which the vision rare of God 
Floods all the earth with heav’nly light— 
On either side the pledging lilies nod! 


BY WAY OF THE ALTAR 


Back in the early twilight of the dawn, 

When withered Eden lay rebuking man, 

And Law and Justice ruled, and Peace had gone 
From Paradise, with Mercy under ban— 

The path through thorns and under crosses passed, 
And by an altar with its sacrifice, 

Its blood for blessing, and the life at last 
Its penance for redemption; life, the price. 

So down the tortuous way, from Eden’s plain 
To Calvary, one line of altars real! 

The via crucis through the years of pain, 

The bloody foot-prints’ sacrificial seal— 

They trace the triumphs which the race has wrought, 
And every vict’ry wrested on the way 
Meant sacrifice, the victory was bought 
With blood; the altar was the place of pay! 





IN QUIET PRAYER HOURS 


113 


Thus in our lives are monuments, not stones— 

Nor golden shrine!—where lamb or dove was slain, 
But altars still; where in the night, alone, 

Some hope, bound fast, ’mid tears and grief, has lain; 
And “It is finished!” we cannot exclaim 
Till some supreme Golgotha rears its cross, 

Till from the fagots flashes up the martyr flame— 
Success means sacrifice, and gain is loss! 


NEW BIRTH 


(“A broken and a contrite heart.”) 


I saw an ugly, angular, misshapen piece 
Of concrete—worse than useless. And increase 
Of years but added to its obduracy. It had missed 
The mark of its high calling to a place 
There in the temple fair! (Qualities consist 

Of life and character). . . The case 
Of this unseemly object gave me thought. . . One day 
’Twas broken by a blow. . . the pieces in a way 
Were re-assembled and cemented; thus, reformed, it lay— 
Still useless, uglier for all the seams and scars. . . But then 
A Master Moulder took the thing, and when 
He thrust it deep into the crusher, ground 
It once again to dust—as dust it had been at the first—He 
could 

Re-make it—as He would. . . He moulded it into his own 
Transcendent image, breathed again into this new creation 
there 

Breath of a New life! . . For the heart is where 
Life—and new life—begin. . . . 

So is regeneration .... man . . . and—sin! 






114 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


WAITING FOR FAITH 

I know that there are times when it is sin 
To sit and wait for answer to a prayer, 

When faith is shown expressly in 

Activity. . . . But there 

Are times when waiting is a virtue high— 

Perhaps the highest—waiting still 

And patiently with Faith until 

The answer comes. . . And more heroic, fine— 

The quiet waiting for Faith’s answering sign. 


“AS A LITTLE CHILD” 


“Of such,” He said—the “ ‘little’ children” there— 
“My kingdom is.” Again, another morning where 
Arose discussion of the terms in which 
Admittance to the Kingdom are expressed, with rich 
And secret meaning, simply He 
Said, “If my kingdom you would see 
You must become as he may be, 

Is here, this ‘little’ child”. 

At first I thought of innocence and mild 
Docility and faith of childhood—they 
Are qualities most beautiful! A later day 
I knew He meant, “Ye must be born again!” I knew 
He had in mind the “ Tittle’ child”, a true 
Example of a fresh New Life, a nature fair, 
Unsullied and potential, pure and rare 
And clean from the Creator’s hand. . . 

So now I understand 

That “as a Tittle’ child” implies 

A new creation in the Father’s eyes. 






IN QUIET PRAYER HOURS 


115 


A RELIGION 


It is the universal need. 

Therefore, it’s mine; but not a creed 
In formal statement cold, 

Nor any dogma old. 

It is a life and more: a living; for the one, 

The living, is expression done 
From life. . . Its elements are three: 

A faith—in good, therefore in God, a faith that goes 
Back to first causes, is today, and throws 
Itself out to infinity beyond; and then 
A hope, hope for the best in me, from men, 

Through circumstance; and, more: Above 

These two, imparted from its source eternal,—Love! 


POEMS OF GOD 

(“Ye are God’s workmanship,” “workmanship” literally 
meaning a “poem”.) 


I like to think of child of Him as part 

Of His creator, His creation, made in His own image, heart 
And soul, a portion of the great Heart Infinite, 

The Soul Eternal—like a ray of light 
From out the sun of suns; His message true 
And—living! with the breath of lives anew— 

God’s poems! Through them He expresses then 
His nature and His will to mortal men ; 

Speaking for Him, and suppliant to His will, 

We are His highest revelations still 

To all the earth. And being clear, harmonious, true, 

The consonance divine is heard and felt in me and you! 







116 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


A NOTE O’ CHEER 


’Tain’t a bit o’ use repinin’ 

’Cause the summer’s sun’s a-shinin’— 

Doesn’t do a mite o’ good to cuss the weather 
An’ it’s folly, this complainin’ 

At the constant clouds a-rainin’— 

Let’s all quit an’ sing a merry song together! 

’Tain’t no use to fret an’ worry, 

Work yourself up to a flurry, 

When your little schemes o’ life are out o’ kelter; 
Jest remember, God still loves you, 

Spreads His tent o’ blue above you 
With the curtained clouds an’ rainbow fer a shelter. 


THE GREATER MIRACLE 


At the Beautiful Gate. ... the hour of prayer. ... 

A man, from birth a cripple, begging there. . . . 

And a disciple, passing in to pray 

That day. . . . The beggar’s prayer; its answer not in kind 
He asked for—better, finer, any mind 
Can see. . . . Command from the apostle then to do 
The one thing which the cripple could not do. . He did it! 
. . . True 

The test and true the faith! ... a Miracle! But that 
Was not the greater miracle that made the lame to walk, 
whereat 

The people marveled. . . The miracle supreme is here: 
That Cephas, who denied his Lord, now had no fear, 

Now had the faith with power to claim 
This healing of a beggar lame! 







IN QUIET PRAYER HOURS 


117 


ANSWER 


Give me the ear of faith, my Master, so that I may hear 
Thy answer to my prayers. . . For I have prayed 
Most ardently for this and that; received it not; and fear 
Came then to me, fear that Thou didst not hear me when I 
laid 

My small petition out before Thee. ... I have learned 
’Twas I that could not hear, I did not catch the answer Thou 
Didst send me. Though Thou didst not give me what I 
asked, I turned 

To find at last that Thou hadst answered better, so 
In kindness and in love I heard Thy whispered, “No!” 


THE BREATH OF LIFE 


Call it by any name: The vision, or the dream, the inspira¬ 
tion fine, 

The inner impulse, or the outer call, the strange afflatus all 
divine— 

Bearing whatever designation, it is, at the last, but simple 
Faith! .... 

Feel it in influence most subtle or distinct, see it as wraith, 

Or follow it as Living One; hear it as but a call in night 

Alone, or in the busy day, a call to duty, to achievement’s 
height— 

So it shall be but recognized, there is the one thing needful 
.... We, 

To be accounted faithful to the end, can never faithless be; 

The vision we have seen, the call we heard, the infinite desire, 

The yearning and the eager hope, the inspiration and the fire 

Of life—that which is life itself in its unmeasured, vast, 

Far possibilities, is this: But simple Faith at lastl 







118 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


POST GRADUATES 


There are rare spirits, only now and then we find, 
Who, having met the common tests of faith, are led 
Into the inner sanctum, where only of the finest kind 
Of faith are e’er admitted; and there, unafraid, 

They face the test supreme which goes beyond belief; 

A test keen-tinctured with the wormwood-gall of grief; 
That last and highest trial of the soul which must 
Be met with more-than-faith—with Trust! 


AND MY FATHER 


Thou God of Might! 

Infinite wisdom and unmeasured, matchless power, 
Whose mindful care and all-creative skill 
Can speak a universe to life, or clothe a flower, 

Omnipotent, omniscient, and all-present—still— 
My Father! 

Thou God of Justice! 

Who holdest out the balances of sternest law, 

Who wilt remember virtues well, nor vice forget, 
Who canst not pass the slightest fault nor flaw— 
Immutable, austere, and just, and—yet— 

My Father! 

Thou God of Love! 

Love deeper than the ocean-depth and strong as death, 
That gave Thine only Son a sacrifice for me, 

Love tender as a mother’s whispered breath— 

Oh, God of Mercy, Thou wilt ever be— 

My Father! 






IN QUIET PRAYER HOURS 


119 


SHRINES OF REVERENCE 


From Abel’s altar ancient peoples piled 

Their simple shrines to sacrifice and—God; 
To Jacob’s Bethel nestling near the sod, 

To Ebenezer, help for hearts defiled, 

On Jordan’s bank where Providence had smiled 
And waters parted, as when Moses’ rod 
Drew millions over mad’ning sea dry-shod— 
These all were monuments, though “altars” styled. 

And then the Temple most magnificent, 

Was builded that they might remember Him, 
Jehovah! . . . Now wherever He has sent 

His chosen ones, if lands are bright or dim, 
Thousands of spires point upward in the sun, 
Mute Monuments to the Eternal One! 


THE UNREMEMBERED ONE 


If there be one, a lonely heart tonight, 

Whom none, of all the world that kneels to pray, 
Remembers—one that has no friend who may 
Bear him in arms of faith up to the white, 

Great mercy-seat—it is my precious right 
To ask that he shall somehow be impressed 
That there is one, unknown to him, whose best 
Impulse of life inspires here to indite 
An earnest prayer for him : “Oh, Father mine, 
There is one solitary brother, one 
All others have forgotten, child of thine; 

Whoever he may be, whatever he has done, 

This unremembered and un-prayed-for son, 

Let me be sponsor for—where prayer-lights shine!” 








120 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


A HURRIED PRAYER 


Dear Lord, I have such little time today 
I cannot find the usual hour to pray. 

But I must take this moment now and here 
To ask one thing—a wish immediate, dear! 

I have a brother near in deep distress— 

For him I pray; his troubled spirit bless! 

Tomorrow for myself I may have time to pray— 
But I must plead for him, my brother, now, today! 


“THE ‘CHILD’ GREW” 


I think there is significance in that 
Plain statement. ’Twas the Child in Him that grew 
As He advanced in wisdom and in stature. It is at 
The little words we find the secret of the Word. 

And so in His development, as Son of Man, ’t is true 
His waxing strong and wise—so that He stirred 
The heart of all the waiting world—was due 
To this one thing: That in His nature fine, 

Human in growth as in its origin Divine, 

The nature of the Child developed; and the heart 

Of Childhood is its faith and trust in One 

Who gave it life. And so, it is the finest part 

Of us that grows—the Child in us. . “For none 

Shall see My Kingdom,” once He later said, “who fails 

Here to become, in pure humility, like to a little Child!” 

Thus—on this line—our prayer for power avails 

When we shall grow, as Children undefiled! 






IN QUIET PRAYER HOURS 


121 


HUMILITY 

Teach me humility, my Master, in the new, 

Best way significant, that it may be the true 
And vital kind; help me myself now to forget, 

Lose sight of my own smallness, unimportance, yet 
A littleness of which I only love to boast, 

A self-effacement false which I am prone almost 
To count a virtue in Thy sight; let me, instead, 

Of being now absorbed in my own self, be led 
To look at Thee, Thy greatness infinite, and see 
In Thy sufficiency the littleness of me! 


WHEN TO PRAY 

Oh, it is fitting when the shadows fall, 

When day is done out toward the western way, 
And dark and dangers loom, and doubtings call, 
To seek Thy kind protection and to—pray. 

But it is better when the morning breaks, 

When Opportunity is bidding me, 

When Tasks are beckoning, when Trial makes 
Attack—to plead for secret strength in Thee. 


SELF-DENIAL 


The rugged mountain yields 
Itself, that fields 
Down in the valley low 
May fertile and productive grow. 






122 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


Great forests ages old 

The earth-depths hold 

As fuel—sacrificed 

In eons past the life they prized. 

The seed to death is sown 
That harvests grown 
To fruitage may repay 
The cost of life in their decay. 

The patriot’s dying breath, 

The martyr’s death, 

The bloody footprints pressed 
The path to liberty and rest. 

So self-denial given, 

The price of heaven; 

Some blood-bathed Cross may rise 
To mark the path to Paradise! 


HIS PICTURE 


He paints His picture where all eyes may see 
Its beauty, grace, sublimity! 

For one on azure easel of the Orient sky 

In hues of light and tinsel dashes, red and gold, 

With shades of clouded gray and purple dye, 

Painted by Morning’s master fingers, sure and bold. 

And for another ’gainst the storm-sky’s scroll 

He paints His wondrous power in flash of hurtling light, 
And rends the curling, curtained tempest-roll 
There to reveal indelibly His boundless might. 





IN QUIET PRAYER HOURS 


123 


For yet another, on the flower’s face 

He paints in radiant blush His smiling beauty there, 
And in the petals moulds His symmetry and grace, 

And breathes His life in rising incense perfumed rare. 

More beautiful: He paints in deathless love 
His image on the canvas of a living heart, 

And with His spirit-brush portrays, above 

The human, the Divine outlinings of His highest art! 

He paints His likeness where all eyes may see 
His beauty, love, infinity! 








, ' ■ ■*! I I 

* *! I 

f:| & • •' - ■ - 

- 












i ■ ' 










. 
































































JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 
ABOUT LIVING AND SUCH 









JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 

ABOUT LIVING AND SUCH 


I AM RICH 


Nobody knows how rich I am. Oh, they may see 
I have of food and clothing my full share, 

Of coin enough to be 

Of service day by day to bear 

Expenses of a fairly easy life. And they may go 

To records, find I have a bit of land, 

A house or two; the banks may show 
I have a tiny sum by which to stand 
If rainy days shall come. . . . But they 
Can never know the riches far above 
Material things I own today: 

A thousand friendships and a wealth of love. 


OPEN HOUSE 


Faith entertained—a favored few 
Alone were present, for they knew 
Faith intimately. . . Then 
Fair Charity was hostess when 
A larger company flocked to her fete. . . 
But when Hope stood down by her gate 
And summoned passers-by to be 
Her guests, all men came eagerly— 

All, all were welcome, even to the least, 
When Hope invited to a feast. 


(127) 






128 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


THE LIGHT 


Bereavement blinded me, and Doubt 
Then led me into darkness deeper yet; 

The lights of all the world went out, 

Nor was one solace left me: To forget. 

But Love so gently took my hand, 

And Faith in whispers guided thro’ the night; 
So that I now may understand— 

For me the Light of all the world is bright. 


CHARITY 


Easy little thing it is 
To suspect a friend; 

Thus a comradeship in pain 
Easily can end. 

Simple little thing it is, 

Once you understand, 

To forgive, excuse, explain— 
Write it in the sand ! 


SMALL AND GREAT 


The little thoughts come trooping to us, bright, 
Impertinent, and clever sometimes; often mere 
Small ordinary ideas, everyday and commonplace, 

So very like the thoughts of others, light 
Or—lighter, colorless, or crude. . . The more 
Important ones, the great thoughts, come by grace 
Of patient waiting, ever-watching; and to be our own 
They come to us in solitude—when we are all alone 1 









ABOUT LIVING ANiD SUCH 


129 


INMATE 


Where does he keep his soul?. . . 

There was a temple fair 
Somewhere, 

Most beautifully, delicately fashioned, white 
And clean, to keep it in! . . . 

His soul, where has it been? 

A palace once there was in which 

A royal tenant rich 

Had been supposed to live. . . . 

The neighbors never saw him give 

The house attention, never spied 

Him, proud of residence, smile from inside! 


THE INDELIBLE 


I may not borrow ink 
With which to write. 

For, could another think 

My thoughts, originate that even slight 

Fresh quality of thought, idea of mine? 

But, there is blood, warm, red 

And flowing from my heart. . . I sign 

My thought in crimson, and am unafraid! 


NOBODY HOME! 


Mister Trouble, he come rappin’, he come tappin’ at my do’— 
Seem lak I hear’ dat soundin’ an’ dat poundin’ oncet befo’; 

I know dey’s gwine be cryin’, en’ a-sighin’ ef he come— 

So I’s layin’ low en’ prayin’ while I’s sayin’, “Ain’t at home!” 









130 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


LEGACY 


I do not care to leave a vast 

Estate of gold and lands and buildings tall, 

Of bonds and stocks and mortgages and all 
The wastrel wealth that perishes. At last, 

When I have done my work, I pray 

That there shall be some heart that may 

Remember that I lived—and loved—and did some little deed 

To prove it; and that there may be 

Some life that found in me a need 

Supplied; that something I have penned 

Shall have struck home and claimed a—Friend! 


A FOOL’S TASK 


A Genius, touched with fire 
From that creative source to which 
Creative lives aspire! 

A native gift so rich 

That it was marvelous—by which 

He visioned; and a skill, 

A resolute and patient will 

To realize the dream! . . A picture fair 

With such entrancing, rare 

Appeal it spoke and sang and glowed 

With life—appealed and showed 

Forth years of living work the Genius had in love 

Transferred unto the canvas from a realm above! 

A Fool, unseeing, dull, possessed 
Of the destructive demon—heeds a mad behest, 
Rips it to shreds—an instant’s work—a knife, 
Quick as a flash, destroys the triumph of a life! 







ABOUT LIVING AND SUCH 


131 


CONTENT 


1 here have been major faults and sins here in my life— 
Even in stress and strife 

I have no good excuse, defense for them; but there 
Is in my heart no jealousy nor envy. . . Fair, 

Honest, even generous I’ve tried 

To be 

To friend and enemy! For I am satisfied 

With what is mine, for me 

It is enough to meet my wants; and there 

Is compliment, instead of an occasion for the jealous ill, 

If others love those whom I also love. . And so I will 

Be still! 

In heart and spirit clean . . . 

Content. . . . serene! 


THE MEASURE INFINITE 


Day follows night, night trails after day, 

Again and yet again; the moon at night 
Follows her course of changes, dark to light; 
Summer and Winter turn their ordered way; 

The time of seeding and of harvest—they 
Recur with regularity by right 
Of law set in the far-beginning; flight 
Of ages has been measured by the stay— 

And start of pulse-beats of eternity !. . . . 

Life, large or lesser, must always depend 
Upon the rhythmic breathing which may be 
Computed by the intervals that spend 
Themselves; the Universe, a poem God may See 
And scan in rounded cycles without end! 







132 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


FADE-OUT 

Time gilds the great with glory. . . . And— 

As they pass outward, toward the western line, 

Like silhouettes heroic, clear, they stand— 

The sunset glow and glint upon them shine. . . . 

But shadows gather and the light recedes 
And mist and mystery and clouds arise— 

The elements upon which skepticism feeds— 

The Human Great, last seen in sunset skies, 

Become dim outlines—then mere gods. . . At last 
They are but Myths, when years enough have passed. 


THIS DAY 


This day! It is the father of a race 
Of days that will come after it ; 

What this day, then, shall have—by grace 
Or gift of industry—it will commit 
To its posterity; and in the future days 

There will be favor and resemblance found, I know 
To this Today. . . What careful ways 
Should such progenitor select to go! 


EASIER 

It’s such an easy, easy thing 

Just to remember, now and then, 

To do a thoughtful little act 

That might prove doubly welcome when 
It’s done in time. And yet—and yet— 

It’s so much easier to—forget! 








ABOUT LIVING AND SUCH 


133 


EFFORT 
A race was run 

By fleet of foot and sure of breath and strong of brawn; 

The prize was won 

Not by that runner who outstripped the rest, 

But by the one who did his utmost, best— 

The one who tried the noblest and through seeming failure 
struggled on! 

A battle stern 

Was fought by the courageous, true and brave; 

He did not earn 

The rich reward who put his foe to rout, 

But he who did his best through all the bout 
And to the battle all his heart and head and holiest effort 
gave. 

And so it’s not 

Results that gauge success, but honest effort’s best; 

The victor’s lot 

Is his who tries, not his who triumphs free ; 

And in rewarding, just eternity 
Not who has done the most, but who has tried the hardest— 
he is blest! 


SUBJECT OF A SENTENCE 

A Man was dragged before the stern tribunal, Fate, 

By Circumstance, the constable. Then all the weight 
Of evidence was balanced, and the charge was read. 
“The crime you’re guilty of is Poverty,” Fate said, 

“And this your sentence that I therefore do decree: 

A life-time servitude at labor shall it be!” 





134 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


FAITH SAVES 


Faith saves. But it is not your faith in God 
Which saves, nor what you do 
To prove belief in Him; for, still more wonderful! 
It is God’s faith in you. 

Faith saves. And in our own humanity, 

If others think you true, 

Their trust may save you from the danger-way— 
Your brother’s faith in you! 


THE GRAIN OF SAND AND THE MOUNTAIN 


Nothing’s important; what seems of moment great to you 
Is naught to all the world beside; 

Comparatives will prove the things we see 
As looming large, in other eyes are microscopic; 

Nothing can matter much—a day, a decade hence 
The pomp which awes today, the grief which seems a moun¬ 
tain weight, 

The high success o’ertopping all the rest— 

Dry up and shrink to nothings in the glare 

Of the tomorrow’s sun. Nothing’s important, nothing great! 

Nothing is trivial! What seems of little weight to you 
Is big with meaning to another heart; 

And relatives reveal the tiny items,—atoms as they look 
To you are worlds and universes to these searching eyes; 

So, all things matter much! A pebble turns aside two seas; 
A tiny scale shuts out the light of living suns, 

A tear may drown a soul in scalding, seething woe, 








ABOUT LIVING AND SUCH 


135 


Or one faint smile may save a kingdom’s fate; 

The little commonplaces scarcely conscious in their doing 
Grow easily to character, which in the light 
Of heav’n hereafter will be infinite. Nothing is trivial, noth¬ 
ing small! 


DIGNITY 


I have never walked on stilts. Oh, it may be 
I was afraid—for there is danger in the way 
Unnatural! I may be dull—you see, 

It means an art acquired in day on day 
Of practice; and I may be loth 
To take the pains or do the work or both. 

And while I must admire the marv’lous skill 
Of some who thus parade on stilts, I will, 

If need be, rather barefoot go, 

And smile with those who laugh at me, 

Than stiffly elevate my way and so 
In walking be less comfortably free. 


SECOND-HAND LIVES 


He sort o’ lived a second-handed life; and so 
They rated him accordingly. You know, 
There are some folks who borrow every day 
Their thoughts in an unconscious way 
From those who think, and here and there 
Pick up ideas of others—stale or rare; 

And soon the world discovers them and sets 
A “second-handed” label on them. So he gets 
What he is worth himself, this tenant-man, 
Living on credit. . . .It’s a sorry plan! 







136 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


ANONYMOUS 


The sign above the door 

May be no more 

Than a distinctive label to assign 

Location and identity unto a business. To define 

The force that moves, directs and guides 

The corporation, vitalizes it, 

Gives stamp of character that lastingly abides— 

One seeks the secret inner office. There may calmly sit— 
There at the helm, the master, quite unknown to fame. . . . 
The sign says one thing—it is not his name. 


MULTIPLYING HIMSELF 

He was an artist, portrait-painter who 

Painted one masterpiece, a likeness of himself so true 

To his own character that every one who knew 

Him said, “Ah, he has put his whole 

Life there into that picture—body, mind and soul!” 

There was another artist who was true 

To his unselfish self, and drew 

Pictures of hundreds, men and women, not a few 

Of little children, rich and poor; 

The beautiful he made more winsome still, 

Yet perfect likenesses; and more 

Of charm he added to the homely ones, until 

Those, seeing any picture that he made, 

Drawn to it lovingly, invariably said: 

“He put his life, his love, his likeness there 
And here and there and everywhere— 

To live in these innumerable ways 
Through all the years and days.” 






ABOUT LIVING AND SUCH 


137 


TRANSFIGURATION 

However dark his spirit seems, 
However fearsome are his dreams, 

No man there is who does not yearn 
For moments when the light shall burn 
From some supernal midnight sun 
Illuminating for the while 
With heavenly radiance, like the smile 
Of God to baptize life with grace 
For days of duties commonplace! 


STORM-KINDNESS 


Sea-wave rolling! 

Sea-bell tolling, 

Wild winds screaming ’round the mast, 

Good ship driv’n before the blast 
On toward the reefs in the swollen tide, 
Billows that boom over harm they hide! 

Sea-wave rolling! 

Sea-bell tolling, 

The god of the trident knows just why 
The ship must ride on the storm-crest high: 
That keel break not on the reef below 
Which it could not pass in the calmer flow! 

Sea-wave rolling! 

Sea-bell tolling, 

And we on the main of life must know 
There are reefs of death where we cannot go 
Unless some high, swift gale shall bear 
Our barques over dangers buried there! 






138 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


THE ROYAL ROAD 

One told me that the path to power lay 

Along the highway, in the noontide’s glare, 
With cheering thousands lined along the way 
Inspiring hero-effort fine and rare! 

Another said: “Not so! the secret path, 

The lonely way, untrod, unseen, unknown 
Save to the elect—unto him who hath 
But inspiration in his heart alone!” 


IMMORTALITY PLUS 


“What is eternal life?” I asked. And after years, 

Years full of faith and hope and fears, 

Faith taught, love proved, to me 
What it may be: 

It is not merely living through 

The endless ages yonder; that is true— 

It is not all. Eternal life is more 

Than never-ending living; it is Life! and, too, 

Eternal life is not the mere existing through the endless days, 
Not merely living always—but all ways! 


PARENTS OF PESSIMISM AND OPTIMISM 


Faith and Fear together sat; 

I overheard their quiet chat— 

About their children—oh, of course, 
With mothers that’s an endless source 
Of conversation. Fear was sad: 

“My eldest child is never glad 








ABOUT LIVING AND SUCH 


139 


Nor happy, ever gloomy, blue, 
Expecting always to come true 
The prophecies of doleful seers— 
His children will be little fears.” 

But Faith, serene and smiling, said: 
“My eldest rarely is afraid 
Of things invisible or seen, 

He’s always confident, serene, 
Enthusiastic, full of joy— 

A smiling, active, hopeful boy.” 


TRASH AND TREASURE 

He once ignored 
Me when I claimed 
Right to expect 
I should be named 
Among those whom 
He valued high; 

He did not pause, 

He passed me by; 

And yet 
This I forget! 

Another day 

He paused and thought 
Simply to say 

The thing he ought— 
And in the way 
Sincere and fine— 
’Twas friendship’s sure 
And sacred sign ; 

Hid deep, 

This will I keep! 




140 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


THE HOUSE AHEAD 

The house ahead stands cold and angular and gray 
Beside the traveled way; 

There is no glowing fire upon the hearth, no light 
Shines out into the night— 

A lifeless, soulless thing it is, mechanical, 

Inert, material. 

The vines no more reach up to kiss the leaning eaves, 
The mass of shrinking leaves 

Is clambering to escape. ... Its tenants are the weird, 
Bald echoes you have feared, 

Themselves nigh-nervous, wild, affrighted, as if they 
Were trespassers at bay— 

Yet mocking, moaning, challenging by turns, to sigh 
At last for days gone by. . . . 

And life may be for us, like to the house ahead, 

When Love and Faith and Hope are dead. 


STYLES OF SORROW 


Oh, sister, wear your troubles with good grace— 

For there is a refinement of the spirit that 
Makes all the difference! The time, the place, 

The season, signify the garment or the hat— 

And so with sorrows, troubles; there are styles, 

And times to wear them; there are ways 
Refined or—unbecoming. You may bear them through the 
days 

Or make them means of beauty to your life; 

And there is taste which takes 

The troubles commonplace and makes 

Of them protection in the earthly strife. 






ABOUT LIVING AND SUCH 


141 


FAITH 


Have they lost faith who once believed in you? 

And why? 

Because their expectations were too high ? 

Because you were not true 

To them and to your own impulse to try? 

Or have they failed to keep in touch 

With you ? Have they as yet that faith ? How much ? 

Have they lost faith who once believed in you ? 

Why not? 

Because you have quite magnified your lot? 

Because you have been true 

Unto yourself, nor others have forgot? 

Because their faith in you required 

Great faith—in them, and in yourself inspired? 


POSITIVE GOODNESS 


So many laws, so many rules! And all— 

Or nearly all—say: “Don’t!”—till you 
And I are quite confused. They do appall! 

Then we resent them through and through. . . . 

If only some kind law were made to say, 

Perhaps by mere suggestion rather than command, 

“Do this or that!” we might then understand— 

Not threatening a penalty, but in a better way 
Just pointing sure rewards and benefits! Oh, say, 

I’d be so busy doing lawful and constructive things, 

In work that joy and satisfaction brings, 

I’d have no time—nor interest—to break 

Prohibitory law's. . . Then I’d be good for goodness’ sake! 






142 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


HUMILITY 

I heard a good man say 
The other day: 

“Humility is always now 
An attribute of greatness.” How, 

I thought, can this thing be? . . . 
Then came to me 
This simple thought, 

So plain I ought 

To have perceived it long ago, 

As you may know: 

“The only men I’ve ever known 
To stoop were tall; the great alone 
Can humble now themselves, the rest 
Are low and small at best. 


LIFE-RULES 


I will live my life as if today 
Were the last that I should ever spend 
On earth, with friends and foes; 

As if I knew my way 
Would end 

When down the West the sun in glory goes! 
-but- 

I w T ill live my life, too, as if this today 
Were but the first of many yet to be, 

Many I know are coming, thus: As if the way 
Were only fairly op’ning now to me 
For opportunity to serve and to achieve and do 
My greater work. . . . 

-and- 


. ... So would I be true! 











ABOUT LIVING AND SUCH 


143 


IDENTITY 


I met Unhappiness upon the way 
One day; 

Disguised she tried to be, and masked 

She was. ... I asked 

For just one glimpse into her face. . . 

With half-repentant, half-pathetic grace, 

She raised her domino. ... I saw 
An old acquaintance, Sin. In fear and awe, 
I shrank from her; for years ago 
I knew her. . . And today, you know! 


QUEST AND TEST 

I met him on the way one autumn day; the air was cool upon 
his brow, 

And he was straight and snugly built and big and strong, 
Full-blooded, eager, poised and powerful. “And now,” 

I asked, “what is your name?” He answered, “Conquest!” 
Then, 

“Your father’s name?” I further pressed. He glanced along 
The race-way he had come, wherein were struggling men 
Of many kinds. Replied he, “Contest!” . . I know how 
Heroes and leaders may be made, and from what circum¬ 
stance, and when. 


SWEET SIMPLICITIES 

I do not crave a life of mystery, 

Of deep-laid plot and tangled history, 

Of dark intrigue and web-wove schemes, 
Elusive shadows, whisperings and dreams. 






144 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


Give me but one clear duty to be done, 

One honest triumph to be fairly won, 

A simple life of clean and open ways, 

Of guileless thoughts and cloudless days. 

Thus, like a quiet river, free to view, 

Runs down a sunlit valley, strong and true, 
So let me live above the plottings rife— 

Give me the sweet simplicities of life. 


TRUTH IN MASK 

Once Truth went masquerading, only once in long, 

Long years of life; disguised and nom-de-plumed, 

And camouflaged she was and yet no wrong 
She did. Under the name, “Sincerity”, assumed 
She shyly went about among her friends who were 
Deceived by this light, flimsy subterfuge. She came 
At last to one, who, shrewdly recognizing her, 

Whispered: “Sincerity!” . . That was her maiden name! 


LIBERATOR 


• Shackled and manacled I lay, a pris’ner in a cell, 

A self-confessed offender; and outside, about, 

Around, and overhead was freedom; beauty which no tongue 
could tell 

Was in the world, while I was bound in doubt 
And darkness, till one day before the throne of Liberty 
Appeared my advocate; obtained he my release, 

And whispered in my ear, “The Truth hath made thee free!” 
Then I went forth in paths of happiness and peace. 







ABOUT LIVING AND SUCH 


145 


SECOND SIGHT 


Above his little task he bent 

With narrowed vision, strained, intent; 

His eyes were dry 
From watching tensely as he lent 
To Hope a hostage for Success. . The sky 
He had not time to scan; he knew no star, 

Could see no beauty in the sunset and the cloud, 

No luring vision from a land afar, 

Beyond the purple and the gold, the proud 
Rare wealth ineffable of life beyond. . . . 

.... And then one day 
Came Sorrow softly, silently, his way; 

She touched his eyelids. Still, stock-still, 

He stood. . . .looked upward, outward, on—until 
The heavens—and then Heaven—opened wide, 

And through the mystic spectrum of his tears 
A second-sight pierced the infinity of all the years. . . 
He saw, first-time, the shining strand beyond the tide! 


DOUBT, A FRIEND 


Blessed be the doubter honest and sincere, 
The questioner severe, 

Who proves all things and holds 
Fast only truth; who would know why 
And how; who never folds 
His hands in simple gullibility! 

For Truth courts sharpest inquiry 
And challenges the strictest test, 

The skeptic’s keenest zest; 

Truth calmly knows 








146 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


The sure result of searching—friends or foes— 

So, blessed be the doubter; Truth can pass through fire un¬ 
scathed, serene; 

And he who questions honestly—he loses naught; he e’en 
Confirms his faith; not only so, but more: 

He is thus doubly armed and armoured o’er 
To battle in the cause of right. 

And he who tears false idols down 

And rends the curtain Error hung before our sight— 

With Truth then holds communion close, and wins a crown 
Of confidence complete, with certainty unmixed, 

And he in firmer faith is yet more firmly fixed. 


PATIENCE, A VOCATION 


Unto a life-work I am called. . .1 know 

Some hear the sacred summons, “Preach!” 

Some have been called to go 

Into far lands to live and teach 

The truth; some have been set apart 

For service matching special gift 

And grace that may inspire, uplift 

And lead men on and up. ... I search my heart 

To find the echo of my calling; there 

I find no shining talent fine, 

No native large ability of rare 
And special sort. . . .Do I despair 
Of finding duty in my life? Is mine 
To be a barren stretch? . . . And while 
I wait, a gentle call comes clear, 

Distinct, and personal: “Abstain from guile 
And malice, envies, evil thoughts, and, hear! 
Accept now Patience as a life-work high, 

Yea, difficult—thus failure evermore defy!” 






ABOUT LIVING AND SUCH 


147 


SAY THIS TO ME 


When I have done with pencil and have pushed my work 
aside, 

When He shall read my proofs, approve the things that will 
abide; 

I hope that one who knew my life in all the busy days 
Can say: “Oh, he was thoughtful in the little things all 
ways.” 

I shall not trouble then about the greatness and the fame 
I might have wrested from the world to make myself a name, 
If only one who intimately knew me through the days 
Can whisper: “He was thoughtful in the little things al¬ 
ways!” 


UNSEEN: REAL 


Soul-blindness long I suffered; till one day 
The great Physician, Truth, came down my way 
And touched my eyes with healing clay; 

Then, dimly first, then clearer as the light, 

The great philosophy broke on my sight. . . 

I saw that only unseen things are permanent and sure 
And things invisible alone always endure. 














JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 
ABOUT VARIOUS THINGS 







JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 

ABOUT VARIOUS THINGS 

THE PERFECT DAY 


It has been said, “There are no perfect days.” That is not 
true; 

There is one day superlatively perfect—if such term may be 
Used to describe one absolutely ideal day; for though 
There never has been one in all the years and years ago, 

Not one which met the measurement in full entirety, 

There is one just ahead, Tomorrow! With its roseate hue 
It dawns in glorious undreamed promise; it is then 
Our purposes are realized, our plans completed, when 
Our hopes are fruited and our visions are transformed; 
Tomorrow we shall win the fight, the heights we stormed 
Shall be our vict’ry-ground; tomorrow we shall do 
The great things we intended, all the good deeds and the true, 
The brave things and the little acts of thoughtfulness, 

The loving, sympathetic words which cost a breath or less 
Will all be said tomorrow; habits which have thralled 
Us through the years—that we had planned to break— 

Will be discarded then; and all the tedious tasks which palled 
Us we will essay gladly, zestfully, most joyously to make 
Accomplishment a pleasure; on tomorrow, too, 

Forgetfulness will be forgotten, all the things we willed to 
do— 

We shall have done—Tomorrow! . . But the sore, pathetic 
truth 

Intrudes: The Perfect Day, Tomorrow, never comes, for¬ 
sooth ! 


(151) 





152 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


THE SHATTERED VIOLIN 
(From an old story) 


“Make for me, skillful workman, a violin excellent, 
Carefully wrought and finished, a perfect instrument— 
Workmanship, wood, the finest that ever were known to man, 
And spare neither cost nor labor to match the master’s plan, 
For I must play for the king today. Here, take these golden 
coins for pay!” 

Thus spoke the old musician. The choicest woods were 
sought, 

And month on month unceasing the patient workman 
wrought, 

And never in all the work-shops nor all the marts of man 
Was violin so nigh perfect, so near to the master’s plan— 

No eye could see where a fault might be—from every flaw 
’twas accounted free. 

Then came the old musician to test the instrument, 

To find if he had all finished the violin excellent; 

He drew the bow but lightly across the strings, and, lo! 

But harshest discord answered the tender touch. And, so, 
With angry frown he cast it down and shattered it from 
bridge to crown. 

“Try yet again, oh, workman; find rarer wood, and take 
More time, more pains, more patience, a finer one to make.” 
Years passed. The old musician came yet again to test 
A violin yet more precious, the costliest and best; 

And as he drew his bow so true across the strings ’twas then 
he knew— 

His cherished wish was granted; the notes divine that fell 
’Woke all the sweet emotions, and wrought a magic spell; 





ABOUT VARIOUS THINGS 


153 


He held at last his treasure, the violin excellent, 

Carefully wrought and finished, the perfect instrument! 
“Now I shall play for the king today; here, take this wealth 
of gold for pay!” 

The workman gazed in wonder, refused the shining gold, 
And spoke to the old musician: “This last is but the old, 
The shattered, broken violin—a remade instrument, 
Carefully mended, finished—the violin excellent; 

And you shall play to the court today the tenderest, sweetest, 
perfect way.” 

L’Envoi 

So are our lives, discordant and out of tune with truth, 

With God and brother spirits and duty and love, forsooth; 
Ofttimes when crushed and shattered by tribulations sore 
Then Faith builds of the fragments still better than before, 
And we may see more perfectly to make our lives a Harmony! 


THE COMMON DESTINATION 

They turned aside, these two— 

One and the Other—from the way 
They walked one day 
As they 

Both followed fine Ambition. For they heard 
Another’s word, 

High Aspiration’s—as a call; 

And they abandoned all 
Their cherished plans that they 
Might this New Call obey. 

Their paths diverged. One went 
This way, intent 







154 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


Upon a followship inspired 

By Wisdom gray 

And knowing; bent 

Upon the purpose which had fired 

His heart. . . This youth 

Went 

Seeking Truth! 

The Other followed Art, 

And consecrated all his heart 
Devoted, fervid, pure, 

Unto the mission sure 
Of finding Beauty rare! 

And, after decades, there 

Upon the heights 

They met. By different ways 

They had toiled upward through the days 

To high achievement, but to realize 

Two dreams—One Image! For their eyes 

Beheld one most desirable, but One 

The object of their common quest! 

For there is none 

Who comes into the kingdom of the blest, 
This land of excellence, but learns 
That Truth and Beauty differ most in name, 
In nature they are known always the same! 

PATRIOTS TWO 


Two patriots there are. One looks 

Back to the far past, and, buried in his books, 

Revels in radiance of the times that were, 

Is proud of all the glory that enshrines 






ABOUT VARIOUS THINGS 


155 


The founders, heroes, pioneers who, scorning fear, 

Built up a nation. . . . And another reads 
The future by the present, sees the signs, 

And seeks the needs that must be met 
To square the debt 

This generation owes now to the past, 

An obligation to be paid at last, 

Not to the pioneers and founders, but to those 
Who will be born in years to come. . . .And if I chose 
Between these two, I would be one of those who see 
Real duty in the task supreme of building well, 

Upon foundations ready-laid, for children yet to be. 


HOLY GROUND 


“Here’s sacred ground!” . . You heard that said 
When some association hallowed sanctified a spot; 

There, one you loved is buried; here, the red 
Blood of the patriot, steeped in sacrifice and hot 
In purpose; there, the old home stood; and near, 

A famous statesman spoke undying words; while here, 

Some other deed made “sacred” by the great, 

Good thing the very earth. . . But we may not forget: 

All soil is sacred! From its warmth the very life 

Of plant and animal and man comes forth, and back 

Unto the mother-earth, when all the restless strife 

Is over, Life returns—to come again! . . . The track 

Of time, the record of the ages old, is writ 

In rock and soil and sand; the secrets deep 

Of all the universe are hid down in the earth. . . So, it is fit 

And proper that in rev’rence we shall keep 

The soil sustaining! With sanctity the Earth is crowned— 

All soil is sacred and all earth is holy ground! 








156 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


PERSPECTIVE 


I stood close to the painting where my cheek almost had 
brushed 

The canvas; for I was foolish and believed the nearer view 

Was better. . . I saw what? ... A splotch quite meaning¬ 
less, a blot 

Of color with no form, design, nor plan; the roughness where 
the paint had crushed 

Upon the surface, leaving ridges and unevenness. . There 
was no true 

Concept, no beauty, purpose, idea—nothing but an inept spot. 

I drew away, back rods away; the little patch was lost in one 

Broad vision of the Picture; that little patch had been a tiny 
bit of stone, 

A little detail of the perfect whole. I saw the roadway wind 

Through vista-ed forest toward the blue beyond; the clouds 
behind 

The dimmer hills; the broken gate-way in the foreground, 
and the cot 

Half-hidden in a wealth of vines, inside the flowered yard 
. . It lay, 

A masterpiece before me, rich, complete, and perfect in its 
tone, 

Its shading, detail, finished in design—a vital picture done 

In exquisite, artistic skill, comsummate in perfection, lacking 
naught! 

And so it is with life: . . One little space of conduct of my 
brother seems, 

Because he is so near to me, an unsolved mystery of nothing¬ 
ness and fraught 





ABOUT VARIOUS THINGS 


157 


With no intent, but full of imperfections and of faults. . . 
One day 

I shall stand back, years back, and view his whole life in the 
beams 

Of the eternal sun of years and see its fine design completely 
wrought 

As one whole composition, beautiful, symmetrical, entire and 
true 

To the great concept which had planned and shaped it 
through and through. 


EMANCIPATORS 


Lincoln 

He had been held the incarnation typical of all 
The spirit of America, that nation which had heard the call 
Of real democracy, of freedom for all men of every class 
And race, the one alone, of peoples in the living mass, 

All creeds and colors. He was in the place of leadership back 
there 

When bloodiest war of ages broke—to liberate a handful bare 
In one small corner of one nation. So he lives serene 
Through all the years immortal for the service he had seen. 

Wilson 

But now another ty£e is cast. A nation ten times grown 
In soul and body has produced in leader now alone 
The incarnation of this spirit that shall bring, 

Out of the blue infinity on eagle’s wing, 

A larger liberty unto the race—not to a little group—to all! 
Who are enslaved wherever they, oppressed, may call 
For real emancipation. Through the ages yet to be 
He shall be known the Great American who made men free. 







158 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


MEAN EXTREMES AND EXTREME MEANS 


It’s Ne Plus Ultra and Ultima Thule a-running the race 
these days, 

A-piling a radical record up in divers and devious ways; 

In every department of human life, endeavor and search and 
fight, 

It’s Ne Plus Ultra that’s pitted against the Ultima Thule all 
right! 

In art, in science, it’s Ultima Thule and Ne Plus Ultra’s 
field, 

Bizarre the method and fad’s the means the freakish crop to 
yield; 

For the cubist’s daub is a bid for praise in the picture that 
shows the worse, 

And the claim for fame and its prize supreme is made by the 
libre verse. 

In Fashion’s realm do the two contest till both extremes are 
met, 

And the altogether’s common—quite!—so far are the stand¬ 
ards set; 

The speed’s revealed of the race that’s run ’twixt Ne Plus 
Ultra now 

And Ultima Thule in the styles of dress, in which they are 
worn, and how. 

From the ball-room gay to the temple gate the Marathon 
stretch is laid, 

And preacher and priest shout favorites on with a frantic heat 
or staid 





ABOUT VARIOUS THINGS 


159 


And sturdier urge, till the cults and creeds, the systems and 
doctrines new, 

Unbaked, unborn, grotesque and raw, successively bulge into 
view. 

From the kirk away to the capital the race-course lies, and Ne 

Plus Ultra strains to lay the length “ ’tween Ultima Thule 
and Me”— 

P^ach to oucstrip the other in some newest, newer -ism— 

A realer, real reality of the super-radicalism. 

Till the flocks and floods of the views advanced for ruling the 
land become 

A Babel of fierce confusion in the total mass and sum— 

For round the world and back again is the frenzied race for 
rule, 

’Twixt radical Ne Plus Ultra and the rabid Ultima Thule! 


THE TAX DECEIVER 


At the Country Store 

“I’m purty well fixed, boys, I swan, ef I do have to say 
It fer myself. Now, that thar farm o’ mine ’ud sell today 
Fer fully ’leven thousan’. My! that bottom strip is fine; 
Thev’s forty acres, jes’ las’ week surveyors run the line; 
An’ then they’s fifty acres more of uplan’, rich an’ gray, 
An’ half a hundred timbered heavy—lumber’s up, they say— 
I’ll tell the worl’, I’ll show my han’ this year with hosses, 
too— 

That mare o’ mine’s a wonder, they’s no tellin’ what she’ll 
do; 

An’ that thar three-year-ol’ is jest the peartes’ critter out, 
An’ them two mules I bought las’ fall is beauts beyon’ a 
doubt; 






160 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


They cost six hundred an’ a half; an’ that young Jersey cow 
(She’s registered) she’s givin’ jest about five gallon now, 
Weighed every day; an’ butter, la! hit’s yallerer ’n gol’; 
An’ say, you orter see my shotes—they’s ten nigh three 
months ol’— 

I ’low they’d fetch a ten-spot each; an’ cotton! w’y I’ve got 
Jest twenty bales o’ las’ year’s crap; an’ corn, I guess I’ll not 
Run half-way down the crib. The bank says: ‘Jones, we’ll 
shorely soon 

Be borryin’ from you! you haven’t drawed sence ’way las’ 
June.’ 

I cackilate I’ve got the purties’ home for many a mile— 

I’m pow’ful well contented—independent fer awhile!” 


At the Courthouse. 

“So you’re the tax receiver? Well, I come ter give in mine; 

But I’m so plagued poor an’ times has been so hard I fin’ 

They’s mighty little ter return: I guess my little patch 

W’d sell fer four per acre, maybe two more at a scratch; 

An’—lemme see! they’s twenty acres bottom overflowed, 

An’ twenty-five or thirty—I declare I never knowed 

Azackly jest how much they was; then thar’s the uncleared 
lot 

All over-growed with scrubby pines an’ black-jacks, like as 
not 

Hit wouldn’t sell fer taxes. Yes, I’ve got one crippled 
mare— 

She’s blind—I guess that twenty-five on her’d be more’n 
fair; 

Then thar’s two mules—they’re undersize—I s’pose the pair 
’ud sell 

Fer nigh a hundeed and a half—that’s doin’ powful well; 

One cow—I’d value her at fifteen dollars; lot o’ shotes— 





ABOUT VARIOUS THINGS 


161 


Jest set ’em down at eight; no cash, no mortgages ner notes; 
Household an’ kitchen furniture—it’s cheap an’ worn an’ 
old- 

jest put hit down at twenty more; I never had no gold 
Ner silver ware, ner jewelry, ner guns. I guess that’s all— 
It’s hard times fer us pore folks, winter, summer, spring er 
fall! 


SAYS TOMMIE, SIX 


i got a littel bruther too allready, he 

’s the teeniest, weeniest littel Scrap 

You ever saw; he’s just ’bout half pass three 

Months old. say, He was sleep in mommer’s lap 

the other day en still as everything 

en Nall at wunst just every littel wile 

He’d kinder smile 

’thout waking up; nen mommer’d sing 
rite soft To Him, an he 
just kep on sleeping. 

Aunt marie 

she saw him smile, an she 

Just carried on! an said “oh My! 

the darling’s dreaming! praps 

He members somethin beautifull; oh, I 

am Shure he has a vishun!” ’nen she taps 

my mommer on the shoulder. 

“May Be” she goes on 
“he’s thinkin now of pleasant sites 
in heavun or In somewheres fore he’s bo’n— 
praps more’n a hundred Yeares ago— 
we cannot know, 

it’s sure some pleasant memmery delites 






162 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


him as He dreams”. 

yes, that’s 

ezackly what die saide, did aunt marie, 
you See, 

she never had no babies in her life— 
w’y, she 

ain’t even no man’s wife 
till Yet 
You bet. 

but Grammer, when she Sees 
my Littel bruther sorter smile 
so curous wile 
He’s sleepin, she’s 

reel difrunt; she Putts on her specks 

an zamines him, an nen She sais to me 

“go tommie, fetch the Parregorrick an a spoon; 

as Soon as Scrap wakes up weel dose him; it uffecks 

them allwavs thattaway; ive never seen 

one smile like That a-sleeping that it dident meen 

he’s going to have the collick” 

an my Grammer knows— 
she’s had about a hunderd babies. Nen I goes 
to get the Parregorrick. 

say, 

does lolvpopps give Babies collick ? cause one day 
i let my littel bruther suck my lolypopp a Littel wile— 
an nen, gee whizz, you orter see Him smile! 


“BLESS YOUR HEART!” 


Ever notice how that sounds, that “Bless-your-heart!” ex¬ 
pression, when it’s said by some good soul who’s seen the 
finer part 






ABOUT VARIOUS THINGS 


163 


In you, and means it as encouragement, with half-surprise 
that you have done so well, a little better than expected 
—you could tell it by her eyes? 

Ever have a sort of consciousness suppressed when she said, 
“Bless your heart!” that you should have been pushing 
right ahead 

And done your best long, long ago? And, say, you know, 
there’s meaning mightier in just that saying trite than 
you have ever quite 

Appreciated! .... Accent’s on the “Heart”—that’s where 
the good intentions come from, rare, unselfish impulses, 
and some 

Of those fine inspirations that result in deeds of service and 
of sacrifice! No matter whether there are needs 

Of body, of material wealth, or commonplaceness in the in¬ 
tellectual quality, so there’s something to connect 

That heart of yours up with the hunger of the poor old 
world! Just so your heart is pure and clean and fine— 
it’s more 

Than any other blessing he or she—or anyone—can e’er im¬ 
part—what’s meant in that warm, cordial “Bless your 
heart !” 


HAPPY MEDIUM 


Just an ordinary fellow, born the ordinary way, 

Had the colic, cried, and fretted, 

Then was good, was coddled, petted— 

Was brought up from day to day just the ordinary way! 







164 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


Just an ordinary fellow, grew the ordinary way, 

Lived, and soon was grown, and married, 

Then grew old and gray, and—tarried— 

Till he died one autumn day just the ordinary way. 

Just an ordinary fellow—wasn’t brilliant any way; 

No one ever said, “He’s witty!” 

No one thought him great—the pity!— 

Wasn’t rich, but lived his day in the ordinary way! 

Just an ordinary fellow! Why did thousands love him, pray? 
Just because he won them gently, 

By his quiet love, intently— 

He had won them day by day—just the ordinary way! 


EMENDATION 


The little sister’s eight years old, the little brother younger; 
Her thoughts run much to curls of gold; and his—the boys’— 
to hunger. 

And so when she announced, “I’m eight”, her grammar just 
to sweeten, 

He warned her—with his features straight: “You orter say, 
‘I’m eaten’.” 


THE FAILURE? 

In every town I’ve ever known, lived Bill! The business men 
Had poor opinion of his business sense, ability and such 
In cold financial matters; time and time again 
He’d tried—and failed; sometimes by bankruptcy, but much 
More frequently he petered out. In politics he took 
A fli’r or two—ran once for alderman and got, I think 







ABOUT VARIOUS THINGS 


165 


It was, some thirty votes. The pious church folk shook 
Their solemn heads discussing him protracted-meeting times 
he’d shrink 

From steady-keeping-at-it as a convert; always went 
Up when a proposition called for those who once enjoyed 
Religion but had fallen by the way. “Oh, yes,” they said, “he 
meant 

The best, but-” there the sentence failed. And they em¬ 

ployed 

About the same remarks in social, intellectual, way 
In sizing up Bill’s status. . . Now Bill’s dead. . . There’s 
not a day 

Somebody doesn’t miss him. Never was a man called into 
service often as was he 

To act as pall-bearer. And sing! in every concert, in the 
choir 

Of every church, no matter which, it used to be 
They knew he’d take a part—just any part—without a pen¬ 
ny’s hire. 

The “Old Field School” called him for teacher; then the 
boys 

Began to organize the “Local Greys”—and he must drill 
them; then 

The Annual Conference met in his home town; one of his 
joys 

Was being chairman of the board of entertainment, meeting 
trains, 

And greeting visitors, and spending days in service—free— 
While others found no time to give. He’d take the pains— 
And half a day—to paint a banner for the folks to see: 
“Baraca Class Invites You All to Meet With It!” And 
goodness knows 

How many nights he’s sat beside some sick one, when the 
scores 





166 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


Of others, duty-bound to watch, were sleeping sweetly. Those 
Were some few of the hundred things he did; he never had 
the time from chores 

Done for the town to get right down to business for himself 
. . . And so, 

They said he was a failure! All the same, I’d like to know 
That when I slip away some day, I’d have, stored up and still 
Accumulating, treasures yonder like the wealth awaiting Bill! 


“ALL RIGHT!” 


I asked Old Partner recently, “Well, how d’ you do today?” 
His answer set me thinking; it was what they always say, 
And yet the more you ponder it the more there is in sight— 
He answered just what you would answer, briskly said: “All 
right!” 


Two words; eight letters! You can say it in a breath, and yet 
Are volumes of significance all bound up when you get 
To reading it and poring it—the breadth and length and 
height 

That may be full unfolded in one’s brief reply, “All right!” 

“All right” in body? Is your health in prime condition now, 
Your respiration, circulation and digestion? How 
Are they? in perfect trim? Are there no defects out of sight, 
Insidious ills elusive? Is your body now “all right”? 

“All right” in mind? Are you convinced by scientific test 
There are no quirks, deficiencies? Your reason’s at its best? 
Your memory never-failing? Intellectual? Are you bright? 
You never make mistakes of thought? Say, can you swear, 
“All right”? 






ABOUT VARIOUS THINGS 


167 


“All right” in soul and spirit—and in attitude and poise? 
“All right” in open life and secret thought? If one employs 
That common little echo to a “Howdy!”, it’s a sight— 

The things he says and doesn’t say in answering “All right!” 


TEXT AND PRETEXT 


“The sermonizing’s easier in these driving days,” he said— 

The parson, as he figured in his note-book. Then he read: 

“First Sunday, Good Roads sermon; second, Y. M. C. A. 
speech, 

On the third, it’s ‘Plant a Garden’—by a reg’lar scheme I 
preach. 

“Then fourth Sunday, I’m expected to slip in an urge on 
Thrift, 

On the next give Prohibition and its benefits a lift; 

Next on ‘Law and Order’ generally I’m scheduled to exhort, 

With a special extra night discourse on Civics, bright and 
short. 

“And soon there’s Pay-up Week and I am asked to take a text 

On ‘Tribute unto Caesar!’ Let me see—what drive is next: 

There’s Mother’s Day and Father’s Day and Children’s 
Day, of course— 

There’s three more Sundays cared for with no chance of 
getting hoarse. 

“Then Clean-up Paint-up Week comes round, I’m asked to 
give the hour 

To boosting that one Sunday in a sermon full of power; 

‘The Fight Against the Great White Plague’ ’s a subject 
that’s assigned 

Another Sunday; ‘Swat the Fly!’ ’s another one, I find. 






168 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


“I’m asked, ‘Please do devote one day to Better Schools’, and 
then 

Another to a plea for Starving Europe—so that when 
Fifth Sunday happens now and then, I feel I simply must 
Wedge Home and Foreign Missions in, to be quite fair and 
just. 

“Then if the Early Shopping talk toward Christmas tide per¬ 
mits 

I may have time, December days, to rouse my pious wits, 
Defy the civic schedule for one Sabbath in the year, 

And preach a Gospel Sermon for my hungry flock to hear!” 


AN’ A PRINCESS COME 


I’ve thought a heap about the big things Miriam done— 
She’s Moses’ sister, maybe you’ll remember. Well, on one 
Bright day down in the swamp ’longside the river Nile 
She set a-thinkin’. “Watchful waitin’ ” was her style 
O’ work—a-minding Moses as he lay, a little baby-scrap, 
Really too young to be off thar away from mammy’s lap— 
But hid, for “obvious reasons”, as they sometimes say, 

In that thar curious contraption of a basket, wher’ he lay 
Amongst the tall bull-rushes. And—Miriam a-tending him! 
I think she must ’a’ been a timid gal, an’ slim 
But wiry, keen-eyed, an’ all wropped up in that thar bud o’ 
her’n. 

I never had no notion that she’d ever heerd the stern 
Decree o’ Pharaoh—she was thar fust an’ foremost jest to 
keep 

The crocodiles from gittin’ him—so he could sleep 
An’ grow. . . An’ while she minded off the crocodiles 
Along a Princess come! .... You know the rest, the miles 







ABOUT VARIOUS THINGS 


169 


That Moses led them Chosen Tribes, the laws he writ— 
They’ve lasted till today—the mark he made; you study it! 
Well, all that never would ’a’ come about, ef she 
Had not been thar to mind the crocodiles away, an’ see 
1 hat Moses should be safe . . . And so, I ’low there’s some 
Big store that we should set by doin’ common duties well— 
A-watchin’ Moseses to keep the crocodiles away, she couldn’t 
tell 

What minute, while she watched, some Princess mightn’t 
come! 


THE SCHOOL 


Here stands the School—a monument, not to the past, 

Not to the heroes of the days that were, 

But to the future generations at the last, 

The hero-patriots of the coming year 

And age. The higher, finer, better reared 

This monument, the higher, finer, better is to be 

The Citizen who in the coming days will see 

His duty to the state, and do it well. You fear 

For safety of the future? Keep the school and teacher true, 

And then support them, prove your faith in them, and do 

What may be needful then to keep them free, 

Free to give service; and the bright’ning years ahead 
Are full of promise for the land, and doubt and dread 
Of evil fade. But give them scant, unwilling help, and know 
The State’s best friend is slighted, lights of liberty burn low! 






170 


JUST A-VERSE-OR-TWO 


EPITAPH 


He warn’t so many when hit come to looks, 

Fer he wuz tough; 

He warn’t no ’count in books, 

Fer whut he never knowed, hit wuz enough! 

An’ manners? Ef he ever 
Had ’em, w’y, they never 
Broke out on him here. 

He wuz jest “Bill”. But not a man 
Ez ever pulled a trigger did he fear, 

An’ never wuz a han’ 

Th’owed truer rope. . . . 

Well, years he lived up ter his shack, 

’Cept when he come to Hellton special days; 

An’ when he cantered back, 

They knowed he’d been thar! He could raise 
More heck when some fresh guy got in the game 
An’ worked a frien’ o’ his’n—then he wuz a sight! 

Hit wuz the same 

A-w'orkin’—he done that with all his might. . . . 

Naw, I can’t say as Bill wuz ‘good’— 

I wisht I could— 

An’ him a-lvin’ thar with clods piled on his heart— 

But, by the Livin’, Bill he done his part, 

An’ done it like the whole blame worl’ depended on jest him; 
Bill wuz a di’mon’, that he wuz, a mine full of ’em ter the 
brim! . . . 

Say, when you plant that monyment on Bill, don’t write 
No high-falutin’ tommy-rot; you might 
Jest h’ist hit white an’ tall 

An’ carve: “He done his damn’dest”—an’ that’s all. . . 
Fer, sart’in-shore 

No gol-dern angel couldn’t do no more! 



































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